Always Get Our Share
by Randomcat1832
Summary: "She was too young to understand how different her family was compared to those of the other little girls in Montfermeil." A look into the decline of the Thénardier family through the eyes of a young Éponine.
1. Playmate

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**Always Get Our Share**

Author's Introduction: Hello all, and thank you for deciding to give this story a look. It means a lot, as always. A few things to please keep in mind ... One, this story will be written strictly from Éponine's point of view, with the **occasional** segment from Cosette's point of view, just to give a little dynamic, though this will only happen once every few chapters. Two, this story is, like all my stories for _Les Mis_, based off the musical with details from the Brick.  
Trigger warnings: some scenes of child abuse, but probably nothing too dark. I think a T rating is safe.  
My cover image for this story features Natalya Angel Wallace as Young Éponine in the 2012 movie.

For my own reference: 8th fanfiction, 5th story for _Les Misérables_.

oOo

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Chapter One: Playmate

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**September 1818**

When Éponine Thénardier came into the world in the late summer of 1815, everyone said she was the most beautiful baby ever born. Or so her mother told her.

Éponine had no way of knowing if that was true or not, but then, she didn't think to doubt it. She was just a little over three years old, and what three-year-old would ever doubt her parents? She liked to sit on Maman's lap and listen to the story of her own birth, of how the midwife came and cradled the newborn, how she handed the baby to Maman and said she'd not seen a more beautiful infant all her life. Éponine was young enough that she didn't question the fact that Maman told her little sister Azelma the exact same story, and of course she'd been too young to remember the birth of her sister, as Azelma was just one year her junior.

What Éponine _did_ know, however, was that she was _still_ a pretty little girl, and Maman always took care to be sure she and her sister looked their best. She helped them bathe every day and scrubbed their little bodies clean with soap and a washcloth in the wooden tub. She ran a brush through Éponine's ebony locks every day and curled it into ringlets. Though she attempted to do the same with Azelma's auburn curls, but the younger Thénardier girl's hair was stubborn and refused to be moulded, so it was always a mess under her bonnet. But Maman gave her two daughters the best dresses their family could afford, all lace and frills, and the end result was that both sisters always looked like life-size porcelain dolls in the window of a toy shop.

And it paid off. All the travellers who stopped by her parents' inn told her so, or sometimes she overheard them telling Maman and Papa. The travellers said so all the time, and it made her giggle. She liked to hear them say it. "Madame, Monsieur," they would always say, "you are blessed to have two such beautiful little girls. The elder especially, she's simply precious."

Éponine's life was one of simple, carefree routine, the life of any somewhat privileged three-year-old girl. She had her own little bedroom with a cot and a patchwork quilt that Maman had made when she was a baby. Maman and Papa said that when her sister was a little bigger she and Éponine would have to share the room, but she didn't mind. She would wake whenever she pleased, and then she would usually go downstairs and play with her dolls in the eating room, within the view of the inn's guests. Then Maman would prepare Éponine and her sister for the day and let them go out and play some more. There was a sort of swing attached to the great big wheel of a cannon to swing on outside, and Maman would push them. She had many lovely dolls, which Maman bought from the _magasin de jouets _in the main square. She had no beautiful porcelain dolls with white china cheeks and real hair, but she had many big rag dolls with buttons for eyes and yarn for hair, and though she yearned to have one of the big porcelain dolls, she had enough toys that she was happy with them. The only problem was that she had to share all her toys with Azelma. Éponine also had many beautiful dresses and bonnets, prettier than those of her rag dolls. She liked to wear them and to spin around in them in front of the looking glass. Éponine didn't know how to read, but she had a big book of fairy stories that Maman sometimes read to her from. It was in these dresses she spent her days, playing with those same dolls, being read to from that same book, swinging on that same swing, and each day would end with a hot meal at a little table in the kitchen that only she and Azelma ate at, and after they ate, they might play another half hour before Maman sent them off to bed. Azelma was barely over two, and she still slept in a tinier cot with bars on the side, in Maman and Papa's chambers. But Maman always came into Éponine's room at night and tucked her in with a kiss before turning out the oil-lamp and leaving the door ajar as she left, just as Éponine liked it.

They never went to church on Sundays, but sometimes, if the inn was busy, Maman would tell Éponine to put on her "Sunday dress", force her to wear it, explain to her that she must tell the guests that they _had_ attended Mass that day in the village's local cathedral. Éponine hated the dress, which was grey and stiff and hot, and she hated it when, sometimes, the travellers asked her which part of the day's service she'd liked best. Éponine never knew what to say, for she didn't know anything about what church services were like, so she simply stated, "The prayers," and for some reason it would cause all the guests to laugh.

There were, of course, other little girls in Montfermeil, many of them Éponine's own age. But she didn't see them or play with them very often, because the inn was located in the very outskirts of town, so it would be spotted by the travellers on their way to a bigger city farther away. Montfermeil might have been a rather small village, and the walk to the main square a short one, but their business was here at the inn, so that was where Éponine stayed. She would be able to play with the other children when she got a bit older and started to go to school, Maman and Papa always told her when she expressed her sullen feelings over the matter to them. For now, she had her sister, and all her lovely toys, and wasn't that enough? But Azelma was usually boring, so Éponine still yearned for a playmate. On occasion, some of the travellers who stopped by would have a little girls with them, and Éponine loved to play with them. Other times there would be little boys and the pair of them would run about outside, chasing each other and getting dirty. Maman would always scold her for soiling her nice dress and running about like "some wild thing", but Éponine liked to play the rowdier games anyway and never listened.

So when, mere weeks after her third birthday, a young woman came by with a little girl about Éponine's own age and that little girl stayed at the inn even when the young woman left, Éponine was thrilled.

Éponine and her sister had been playing on the swing when another little girl they'd never seen before came running up to them and asked if she could play too. She was blonde, had a big bow in her hair, and wore a pink dress. Éponine remembered thinking that this little girl didn't have clothing as nice as her own, and had silently gloated over the fact. But just as she'd been about to tell the girl that yes, she could play too, a lady came hurrying after the girl and scolding her for running off. The lady wore a white dress and had long, wavy brown hair to her waist and nice brown eyes, and when she came by the inn, Éponine thought her rather pretty. She was a traveller, though it was uncommon for women to travel alone, but Éponine knew she was travelling, for she was carrying a large valise.

After that the pretty lady in white started talking to Maman, and Éponine, sulking over the fact she was no longer being pushed on the swing, had proposed they play a different game. She and the blonde little girl, whose name was apparently Cosette, had dug up worms in the ground with sticks, and they both shrieked in delight whenever they uncovered one of the squirming little creatures. The girls took well to each other, so Éponine was happy when this Cosette and her Maman spent the night at the inn. But in the morning, the girl's Maman had left, leaving her daughter (and the valise) behind.

At first, Cosette had cried and had been no fun at all the entire day. She hadn't wanted to play anything. Maman told Éponine that the little girl, Cosette, was going to live with them a while, and that was that. At first she told Éponine she could play with the other girl if she wished to, so long as she remembered Cosette was a pauper child and a lesser girl compared to Éponine.

Éponine hadn't really understood what that meant, but she'd shrugged, indifferent, before running off to find her new playmate. Cosette was sitting on the stoop, still crying, and Éponine sat down next to her. "Don't cry, silly," she'd said. "Your maman will be back and for now we can play. Do you want to help me dig up more worms?" Cosette had sniffed and shaken her head and gone right on crying, so Éponine had sauntered off and gone to play with her dolls instead, for of course it was no fun to dig up worms by herself (there'd be no one to shriek with!) and Azelma wouldn't want to play. But when Éponine asked Cosette the same question the next day, the blonde girl had nodded shyly, and they spent the next several hours under the sun digging up worms.

Afterwards, Éponine showed Cosette all her dolls, which of course she had many of. Cosette had just one doll, a rag doll like Éponine's that was so small it fit into her apron pocket and which was a weatherbeaten hand-me-down apparently given to her by her Maman, and so she was entranced by Éponine's dolls.

Over the next week or so, Éponine had been happy to play with Cosette, who was much more fun than Azelma, because she went along with whatever Éponine said. Still, Azelma played with them too. Once, Maman took Azelma and Éponine to the village for a rare outing for sweets. Sweets were expensive, so Maman and Papa rarely bought them for their daughters, but when they did, it was like heaven on their tongues. Éponine had wanted Cosette to come too, so she could show her the big porcelain dolls in the window of the toy shop, and a reluctant Maman had agreed. She bought hardened honey candies and a small _tarte au citron_ for each of her daughters, but she'd not gotten anything for Cosette. Éponine had wanted to give her new playmate a piece of her tart, but Maman had said, "Don't be silly, _ma fille précieuse_. That tart is for you." So Éponine ate the tart and the honey candy by herself, and afterwards, she and Cosette looked at dolls in the window of the toy shop before walking back to the inn.

oOo

Cosette had been staying with them for perhaps a month and a half when, as Éponine was going to bed, she saw her new playmate huddled on a pile of rags under the stairs. She crouched down next to her and questioned her on the matter. "Why are you sleeping there?" During the time she'd been here, Cosette had slept in one of the unoccupied guests' rooms.

"Your Maman says I am to sleep here from now on," Cosette had replied, and shrugged. It was by now just past November; it must surely be cold under the stairs, far from the warm fireplace of the upstairs parlour, and surely a pile of rags would not serve as a comfortable mattress. But if her Maman had said so, then Éponine had no reason to say anything. Perhaps the rooms were full tonight. Éponine never paid any attention to the number of clientele, she just knew when they were there. So she said to Cosette, "Oh," and kept climbing the stairs.

The next morning, while eating her morning porridge and honey on bread with Azelma, Éponine looked around and spotted Cosette serving the other customers their own breakfast in the next room. Maman came up to her daughters and crouched down next to their table. "Now, _mes filles_," she said, and her voice was so stern and serious that Éponine and Azelma stopped eating to listen. "I've something very important to tell you both. As you know, Cosette is a pauper child. We've been very good to her and cared for her over the past while but now it's high time she got to do some work around the inn. And work is what she will do. I don't want either of you to ask her to play with you anymore, for that's not her place. Her maman's all but abandoned her, and since that's the case then you clever girls must know that we won't be able to raise her ourselves. She'll need to work for her keep, you see. So, if you see Cosette working, just leave her. That's her place."

Éponine was confused. "But Maman, I thought you said she would be staying with us a while until her maman came back. Her maman didn't leave her, did she?"

"She did," their Maman replied. "And has left us with a burden, too. Do you understand, _mes filles précieuses?_ Later today we will be going to the square and shall be selling Cosette's clothing, so if there's a dress of hers you like I suggest you pick it out before we go." After that, she stood and left, considering it the end of the matter.

"I like her yellow dress," Azelma announced once Maman was gone. Éponine had seen Cosette wearing the yellow dress too, and had privately envied her for having it. It was the only dress Cosette had that was nicer than any of her own. She glared at her sister.

"No. I want the yellow dress. You may pick another one."

An argument broke out between the two, but when they went upstairs and pulled the yellow dress from the valise of clothing that Cosette's Maman had left, they discovered the dress was just a little bit short on Éponine, but it fit Azelma just fine, despite the fact that the sleeves were a bit long. Éponine silently fumed at this, for there were no other dresses of Cosette's that she fancied, but so as to show off to Azelma she took the best stockings she could find in that valise, and they fit her alright.

After Maman had helped her bathe, and combed her dark hair as always, Éponine put on her best red dress and the new stockings. The fact that she could now dress herself always made her feel quite grown up. She observed, as she met her sister on the landing, that Azelma had chosen to wear and to show off the yellow dress that day. Of course, Azelma was too small to know how to dress herself, and Maman was doing up her buttons. Éponine sat on the stairs and rocked one of her dolls while she waited for Azelma to be ready, and when her sister was, she turned to Éponine and beamed.

Then Maman took Azelma's hand in one of her big fists, and held the valise in the other. Éponine followed just behind, still holding her doll. As they stepped outside, she saw Cosette with a large broom, struggling to sweep up the fallen leaves on the front stoop. She was crying quietly, but she looked up when she saw Azelma and asked quietly, "Isn't that my dress?"

"It's Azelma's now," Maman snapped. "Keep working." And she went on walking with Éponine and Azelma to the main square, all the while muttering about how Cosette was a _useless brat_. For some reason Éponine didn't question any of it. She never questioned Maman, for she saw no reason to. She kept walking with her Maman and her sister, cradling her doll and not looking back.


	2. Larks and Names

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**Always Get Our Share**

Official Estimated Length: 11 – 16 chapters

oOo

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Chapter Two: Larks and Names

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**October 1820**

By the time Éponine was five years old, she'd gotten used to a lot of things. Things she did not question, for such things she saw all the time, every day. She'd gotten used to being doted on by some of the travellers, and of being continually spoiled by Maman and Papa. She'd gotten used to guests sometimes complaining that their things had gone mysteriously missing overnight. She'd gotten used to men from the village with scraggly beards and breath like Papa's coming by to drink and not spend the night. But most significantly, she'd gotten used to Cosette. It seemed to Éponine that Cosette had _always_ been there, scrubbing under the tables and sweeping the steps. Though it had only been two years, she scarcely remembered a time before her. Cosette did all the work, Éponine and Azelma did all the playing. It was the way of things.

The village folk called Cosette the Lark, and Éponine thought it was a name well-suited to her family's servant girl. After all, she was as plain and ugly as one, and she dressed only in old clothing that no longer fit Éponine, so what she wore was too small, dirty, and ragged. The system was quite simple: Cosette simply worked about the inn all day, and sometimes she helped Maman with serving the customers. For some reason, what stood out to Éponine more than anything was that Cosette cried so often. She was _always_ crying, and Éponine found it tiresome.

Éponine didn't know, exactly, what she thought of the Lark. She understood she was a pauper child, and Maman said that she was "all but certainly born out of wedlock too, the filthy brat!" Éponine didn't know what that meant, but she was sure it was something bad and undesirable, because Maman treated it as such. She took Cosette to be a lesser girl than she, just as Maman and Papa said. Cosette's place was scrubbing under the table and mucking the stables, and Éponine never considered that the Lark might be tired, because Cosette always worked and that was that. If she didn't work hard enough, or if she was caught slacking, then Maman would shout and beat her. Éponine hated it when Maman did so, for the sound of Cosette's cries and Maman's angry shouts always bothered her. When this happened Éponine usually went up to her room and covered her ears with her pillow to muffle the sounds. Maman always came up to Éponine's room afterwards and cradled her firstborn, comforted her. "You mustn't worry about her, my princess. The brat deserved it, for she was slacking ... I caught her humming and dancing with the broom downstairs when she should have been sweeping our floors, you see ... She was simply being reminded of her place … "

Every time Maman said these things, it always made sense to Éponine. Yes, the Lark _did_ deserve it, for she was to help keep their inn clean and respectable, and if she wasn't doing her job, then yes, of course she must be punished. Of course she must be. But then Cosette would miss a spot of dust or drop a plate, Maman would be angered, and it would bother Éponine all over again.

Azelma didn't like to hear Cosette being beaten either, in fact she herself often cried over such scenarios. "Why must she wail so?" Azelma would often gasp out between her own cries. But she had no qualms in running off to tell Maman if _she_ spied Cosette singing to herself when she should have been working. Éponine had caught Cosette slacking a number of times, but she saw little point in telling Maman. She often threatened to, though, and thrilled in the strange effect of the _power_ her words had over the Lark, who always gasped and begged Éponine not to do so. "I shall consider it," Éponine would say, before skipping off to play with her dolls, something of more interest to her.

Papa was never involved in these affairs. He was never really involved in _any_ affairs at all, other than running the inn in such a fashion that was as profitable as possible. Sometimes, he would shout at the Lark and order her about, but most often he ignored her. In fact, he spent very little time with his daughters, too. Sometimes he would sit Éponine and Azelma on his lap and show them how he ran the inn. "That's the way of business, _mes filles_," he always said. Sometimes he would tell Éponine and Azelma tales of his time in Waterloo, but he never played with them or let them ride on his shoulders on a walk to the main square. He was the master of the house, he said, so perhaps masters didn't play with their children. How would Éponine know?

And so, Éponine questioned none of this. She was too young to understand how different her family was compared to those of the other little girls in Montfermeil.

And so her life went on as one of that same carefree routine. The only exciting and new thing that was happening now was that Maman was with child, and the baby was expected to come in a month's time. Éponine was convinced it would be another girl, so that she might have another sister to play with, once that sister grew a little older. She imagined teaching this potential dream sister to climb trees and to braid hair. She'd not gotten to do this properly with Azelma, for the gap between their years was so small: just thirteen months. But there was one thing about Azelma that Éponine loved, and it was that she viewed her elder sister to be a figure of great wisdom and knowledge. Azelma didn't have to know that most of what Éponine knew came from overhearing conversations the travellers had. She simply thought that her sister knew everything, and Éponine liked it like that.

Azelma and Éponine shared the bedroom now and had been doing so for perhaps a year. Their cots were tucked into opposite corners of the room, and on the wall between the beds was a shelf where they kept all their toys and books. A wardrobe against the opposite wall held their fine dresses, of which there were many. Each sister had her own separate little night table, where an oil-lamp and small wooden and china animals from the toy shop sat on each. With Azelma in the room, it was a bit smaller, but Éponine was comfortable and besides, she liked to indulge in late-night whispered conversations with her younger sister. Better yet, sometimes, when neither sister could sleep after Maman had put them to bed, they would stay up and play with their dolls late into the night.

One night, Azelma whispered from across the room, "'Ponine? I've been thinking of the baby. Do you think it might be a girl? I'd like it to be a girl."

This was one of the rare occasions that Éponine was truly tired during the night, but she rolled over in bed so that she was facing her sister and answered, "Well, her first two children were girls, so I suppose that the third child could be as well. I'd like another sister too." She closed her eyes, but was disturbed again by Azelma.

"'Ponine? What shall Maman call her, do you think? I'd like for her to have a fine name like ours. Do you like _Pénélope_? I think it a lovely name. That's why I named my favourite doll so, you see."

"Perhaps," Éponine said with a tiny smile that was invisible for the darkness, "the baby shall be called _Gulnare_."

"Gulnare? What a dreadful name!"

"It's what Maman intended to call _you_, at first."

"You couldn't know that. You're only a little older than I am!"

"Well, it's true. I simply know." Éponine didn't tell her sister that she'd overheard Maman talking and chuckling with the baker over how narrowly Azelma had escaped being saddled with the name _Gulnare_. Upon hearing this, she'd thought it funny and kept it in mind to tease Azelma over in the future.

"Well, I'm glad it's _not_ my name!" Azelma replied. She yawned. "Anyhow, I'm tired now. Good night, 'Ponine." She rolled over and fell asleep. One arm slipped from under the covers and dangled over the edge of the bed. From her position, her fingers brushed the floorboards just so as her arm dangled, and with her head of unruly auburn curls, she seemed a life-size sleeping rag doll.

Éponine was no longer tired, and spent most of the night lying in bed with her dark hair spread out behind her little head like a fan, listening to her sister's breathing. When she finally slept and dreamt, it was of a new little sister to play with, named Pénélope.

oOo

The next night, Éponine and Azelma were eating dinner at their own little table, as always. Cosette was upstairs working, as always. The travellers were loud and rowdy, as always. Maman was in the kitchen, cooking soup over the wood stove, as always. Papa was in the eating room and writing bills for the guests, as always.

As soon as she had finished eating, Azelma got to her feet, picked up one of her dolls, and dashed into the eating room. Éponine hadn't finished her own soup yet, but she stood and followed to see Azelma sitting on Papa's knee. Papa was talking of his two beautiful little girls and the poor pauper child they'd taken in out of the warmth in their hearts, but with another baby on the way, his family was sure to be short of money and how it would be so very difficult to feed the children. He spoke of his being an honest and humble man, who'd settled down to a simple life of keeping this inn after his fierce labours in the Battle of Waterloo. "The dear pauper child," Papa was saying now, "she's so very kind-hearted, just as those who took her in when she was just a babe — her mother abandoned her on the steps in this inn, left her in a basket and took off during the night. The darling creature always insists on helping about, and on wearing the clothes my own children have since outgrown, for I fear she thinks herself a lesser girl. We always tell the poor dear she isn't, of course, for we consider her to be one of our own, but I suppose her abandonment has left her disturbed. And she's so timid, too. We worry for her. I shudder to think what might happen to _her_, of all of us, should we run out of money to feed the family, for she might very well refuse herself food. Why, already she insists my daughters eat before she does … !"

Éponine of course knew this to be lies, but she did not bring it up. Papa lied, he lied all the time; it was simply what he did. Papa lied, just as Éponine and Azelma played and Cosette worked. In her young mind, the world was one of simplicity and everyone had their own place. Papa's was lying. It was how all children made sense of this strange place they found themselves in.

But as the case was, no one ever really grew out of this stage in their lives. For everyone, really, created their own straight-arrow, black-and-white world in their minds where we all have a place and a purpose, where we put all our faith and hope in a God we worship and believe to exist, controlling and leading mankind like a puppeteer, just because we have been told he does. It is so much simpler that way, and simplicity is desirable.

Éponine listened to her father go on and fabricate his lies a moment longer, hovering in the doorway, then she flounced her skirts and skipped into the eating room, taking her perch on Papa's other knee. Papa put one arm around each of his daughters absently and went on talking to the guests, the topic having migrated to his favourite story to tell: that of his efforts in the Battle of Waterloo, and how his labours had been hard, but all of them in the name of France. Éponine cuddled against his shoulder, content to listen to the story she'd heard so many times.

Papa was just reaching the part where he'd seen the supposedly dead soldier move when a soft pattering of footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Éponine looked up. Leaning over the banister was the Lark, holding a broom taller than she was. Her blue eyes were nervous and flitted about. That was another funny thing about Cosette: her eyes were forever flicking back and forth, looking all about her. In that hushed voice of hers, she spoke. "Forgive me, _Monsieur_ … I've finished beating the rugs and cleaning the upstairs rooms … is there anything else I should do?" As soon as she was through speaking, she quickly stepped backwards and hunched her shoulders.

Éponine started to say that she wanted her favourite dress cleaned for tomorrow, because she'd soiled it while playing outside yesterday. Maman always told Éponine and Azelma that they were free to give Cosette orders if they wished to. But Papa interrupted her. "No, that's hardly necessary. Get some rest, sweet child, and do some knitting — finish those stockings you were working on last night. Quickly, now." He waved one hand at her impatiently, then turned back to the guests as Cosette set her broom aside and hurried down the stairs to fetch her knitting basket from the parlour. "Do you see what I mean? That's the pauper child we took in, and she's ever so shy and quiet … "

Here he changed the subject to one of taxes, and Éponine grew bored. She had no interest in such matters, and couldn't imagine what it was that grown-ups found so fascinating about taxes and property, nor could she envision herself having similar conversations with others once she was grown up. She turned to her sister, who was preoccupied in combing her fingers through Pénélope's hair. "Let's play with our dolls in the parlour," she told Azelma, sliding off of Papa's lap, and her sister followed her. Papa did not acknowledge their parting as the two Thénardier sisters went first upstairs to collect one of Éponine's dolls, then back down to play in the downstairs parlour.

The Lark was there, huddled under a small table, knitting a new pair of stockings for Éponine, as Maman had ordered her to a few days ago. Her nervous blue eyes shot up when she heard Éponine and Azelma enter the room, then quickly back to her work. She looked so vulnerable, hunched there under the table in the ratty remains of a blue dress Éponine had since outgrown, with her face sooty and her blond hair matted and falling in her wide blue eyes. Éponine understood that it was the Lark's place to do work, but she didn't see why Cosette had to seem so … pathetic, and she couldn't help but tease her. Éponine often found herself teasing and taunting the Lark, for doing so proved all but irresistible, especially since her reactions were so funny.

"Poor little Lark," Éponine singsonged. "Are you very cold? Don't cry, little Lark, those stockings will keep you warm. They're for me of course, but for now the wool will warm your poor little hands as you make them for me."

The Lark looked up nervously, mumbled something unintelligible, and returned to knitting. Éponine giggled and her sister was all too happy to join in.

"Don't cry, Lark," Azelma put in. "If you behave yourself then my Maman shan't beat you tonight, and that should be most special treatment for one like _you_."

"A pauper child," Éponine added as a reminder, and nodded, crossing her arms over her chest. "Whose maman abandoned her. Well, _my_ maman loves me dearly and takes fine care of me, and she's got two girls to look after, soon to be three, not just one!"

By now the Lark was on the verge of silent tears, her blue eyes starting to water. She bit her lip, sniffled, but did not look up. Her focus remained on the stockings. But Éponine noticed the way her little Lark hands trembled and the way her little Lark shoulders shook soundlessly, where her little Lark wings should start but didn't. Éponine giggled again, feeling simultaneously amused by Cosette's reaction, but also scornful of how pathetic she made herself. The Lark was still quietly crying, so she turned to her sister and nodded to the far corner of the room.

The sisters left the Lark to her crying and knitting, and played together by the light of the oil-lamp, the chatter from the eating room adding atmosphere to their games. They lost themselves to their own world of dolls and dresses, of lace and bonnets.

Éponine combed her fingers through the yarn hair of her favourite doll, which, along with a beautiful India-rubber ball, she had received last Christmas and had of course named Nöelle, for there was no name better suited to a doll given by Père Nöel. Nöelle was the prettiest rag doll that Éponine owned. She was made of cloth, of course, but she had, too, a beautiful dress made of real red satin, with tiny buttons going down the back. Nöelle was simply the best doll to comb the hair of, and to cradle in her arms, for she was also very soft. As Éponine rocked Nöelle back and forth, her movements were tender, and she imagined that the rag doll was the new baby sister she was sure to have soon.

When the mantle clock ticked to nine-thirty, Maman entered the downstairs parlour and bent down to crouch by her daughters. "It's time for bed now, my children," she said fondly, and gathered Éponine and Azelma close, held them in a warm embrace against her. "Be good girls, and hurry on up to bed, put on your nightdresses. Maman shall be up shortly to bid you good night."

Éponine pouted. She wanted to go on playing, for she did not feel even the slightest bit tired. "But _Maman_ … " Éponine allowed her voice to stretch into the threat of a whine. Azelma copied her sister's pout and refused to get up from her position, curled up comfortably in the corner.

Éponine knew she was never to cross Maman. But Maman so rarely scolded her, she often had difficulty seeing the boundaries she was expected not to pass over. In her eyes, everything was allowed. So she could not help but feel rather startled when Maman's eyes flashed. "Do as I tell you," she said sternly. "And go on." She swatted at Éponine's bottom, and did the same to Azelma as the younger Thénardier sister scrabbled to her feet. As the girls began to troop, still scowling, out the parlour and up the stairs, Maman's anger faded. "That's good, my darlings. I shall be up shortly, then. All right?"

"Alright," Éponine said agreeably, pleased now that Maman was no longer angry with her. She took her sister's arm and they pranced like horses up the stairs, giggling when they tripped over their own feet and skirts.

On their way up, one of the travellers heading up to his room smiled at the little girls as they passed. "Be wary you don't trip and fall and break your necks," he said with a grin.

"We shan't," Éponine scoffed. "We are prize horses!" This made Azelma giggle, and Éponine laughed too. She and her sister turned their noses up and went on trotting up the steps and to their room, where they found it just as it always was. Éponine always scanned her room when she entered it, because Maman said that Cosette might try to sneak in and take her dolls, so she must always be wary. The Lark hadn't done so yet, but Éponine saw it a necessary action to take a thorough look around whenever she entered her room, just in case.

The sisters set their dolls down and pulled their nightdresses from where they were folded on a shelf in the wardrobe. Éponine stripped off her gown and petticoat, freely, in front of her sister, with the simple indecency of childhood. If she wanted to, she could ask Maman to purchase her a dressing screen — Azelma sometimes complained that without a dressing screen's service as a shield she could never be a proper lady — but such modesty had never been a concern of Éponine's.

The elder Thénardier girl stepped into her nightdress and reached back to do up its buttons. Her small fingers found them and she easily did the buttons up. She turned side to side once, shook her head, and giggled to herself at the way her ebony ringlets bounced about her shoulders.

Then she turned and saw that Azelma was struggling. Éponine sighed. Azelma always had trouble with this sort of thing. It seemed to Éponine that Azelma had trouble with _everything_, sometimes. She had lectured Azelma on learning to do up her own buttons many a time, but her sister always seemed incapable. Éponine sighed again, "You'd like help, I suppose?"

"I can't do it on my own; it's complicated for me," Azelma muttered, turning around for Éponine to do up the buttons for her. And Éponine did so, then sat on the edge of her bed and returned to nursing Nöelle. It was a good name for a doll, and a good name for a sister. Perhaps she'd ask Maman if that was what they could name the baby.


	3. The Baby

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**Always Get Our Share**

Author's Note: This chapter is a little different, stylistically, than my previous two chapters, and the chapters to come in the future. I personally prefer the other style, but I simply couldn't come up with any other way to write it. Also, I'd like to confirm that while I will be featuring a young(er) Gavroche in this story, the other two Thénardier boys will not be playing a role at all.

oOo

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Chapter Three: The Baby

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**December 1820**

Wintertime was always Éponine's favourite time of year. In the winter she would get a new cloak to wear and to play with out in the snow. The winter was a time for sitting by the warm crackle of the fireplace with her doll cradled in her arms. It was a time she liked to spend having snowball fights with Azelma outside, and making snow angels. Éponine loved her winter dresses the best as well, because they were always so warm and snug-fitting. But Éponine's very favourite thing about the winter was Christmastime, when they set up the Christmas stalls in the main square, with the most beautiful dolls, even more beautiful than the porcelain dolls in the windows of the toy shop. There were animals carved out of wood, and every year Maman would buy Éponine and her sister a wooden animal each. Other stalls would be adorned in mistletoe and sell small sweets – not just hardened sugar sweets or little tarts, but true luxuries, such as chocolate. Éponine longed to try a chocolate, and in the past few Christmases, ever since she was two, she had pestered Maman for some. Maman always said no, because they were too expensive, but Éponine still liked to admire at the chocolates in the stall and smell them, and at least she was allowed to purchase other sweets from the candy-maker's stall. The most exciting thing was when the men would come dressed as Père Nöel and let the children sit upon his knee, whisper in his ear what they wanted for Christmas. The entire experience thrilled five-year-old Éponine beyond words. Christmas was coming in a fortnight, and she was very excited.

Maman's belly was now very swollen, and the baby was due very soon. Éponine had asked when exactly, and Maman had told her that it would be in just a few days. Her belly made it difficult, sometimes, to mount the stairs from the serving area of the inn, but she was strong, tough, and braved the climb each day. She was doomed to walk with a funny sort of waddle until the baby was born, but she still went to the main square – mostly she sent Cosette, though, to do the buying of bread from the baker's and meat from the butcher's. It made Éponine feel very proud of her mother, either way.

One Tuesday, while Éponine was playing out in the snow with Azelma, she was startled by the sound of the inn's door whipping open and closed. It was Papa, scrambling to put on his coat and boots. He glanced over at his daughters, who now stood watching him curiously. Papa hurried over to them as he fumbled with the laces of his boots. "_Mes filles_," he said to them, and Éponine knew that this must be terribly important if Papa was addressing her and Azelma so. "_Mes filles_," he said again. "I need you both to go inside, but leave your poor mother alone. Éponine, I leave you in charge for now – the baby's being born."

Éponine's eyes widened. "Are you fetching the midwife?" she asked, thrilled, and Papa nodded before turning and taking the road down to the main square at a sprint. She watched him go. She'd never seen Papa run so quickly before. Eventually, she turned to Azelma. "Come, 'Zelma," she said, remembering Papa's words – _I leave you in charge for now_ – and delighting over it. "Let's go inside now."

Azelma nodded. "Alright." The sisters hurried inside and shed their cloaks, kicked off their boots, and dashed to the downstairs parlour. It was empty, for today they were lucky to have no customers to worry about. If a traveller did come by, Éponine would tell them the inn was closed. Papa always said he was the "master of the house". Well, today Éponine was the mistress of the house. She had all the power tonight. So long as she let Maman alone, as Papa said. Éponine would have preferred to be there with Maman, but her only rule was to stay out of her way, a request Éponine would not suffer trying to follow.

Shaking the snow from her ringlets, Éponine looked around the parlour. It was empty but for the Lark, who was on her knees atop a stool so that she could reach the windows she was polishing. She looked up when she saw Éponine and Azelma enter, then quickly returned to her work. She seemed to be cold. She must be, Éponine reasoned, because she hadn't any shoes or a shawl, just the one ragged dress. It was torn at one sleeve; the stitching had broken apart and the dull coloured fabric hung sadly about her bony little shoulder. More than once Éponine had seen the Lark huddled as near as she could to the fireplace, or rubbing her hands together for warmth. Once, Éponine had asked Maman this – didn't the Lark ever get cold? Maman had just told Éponine not to worry over such matters. So the eldest Thénardier girl _didn't_ worry, though she sometimes teased the Lark about catching a chill if it was especially bitter outside. A few times in the past, she'd considered giving the Lark one of her older winter cloaks, but she imagined Maman would only scold her if she did so. But all this had happened a couple of winters ago. Éponine had stopped seeing the Lark in such a light now.

Éponine sat down on the floor of the parlour and picked up her doll from where she'd been left on the floor the previous night. She spread her skirts out so that they surrounded her in a pool of gentle pink fabric, the lace and frills like sea foam. She held Nöelle in her arms the way she knew one was to hold a baby, and as she rocked the doll gently in her arms, she imagined herself to be a fine elder sister. Azelma took her place next to her sister. While her dolls were all upstairs, she didn't want to venture up to fetch them because Papa had said she was not to disturb Maman, and perhaps if she were caught there Papa or Maman would be cross. Or Éponine, who was in charge today. But Éponine had left another one of her dolls here too, so Azelma took that one, and her sister didn't mind.

Éponine was enjoying herself in rocking the doll back and forth, when a very small, very shy voice sounded behind her. It started with the sound of the faintest clearing of a throat, then that of breath being sucked in, and finally a timid, "Pardon me … Éponine?"

It was the Lark of course, and she stood there behind Éponine and Azelma, looking small as ever. She was trembling slightly. She worried the dirty rag of her polishing cloth between her hands, rolled it into a ball and made a fist around it, then loosened her grip. _Clench, unclench_. The Lark was always fumbling with things too, as though she needed to keep her hands busy with something. Éponine wished she would stop, for it made her feel nervous. She tried to ignore the Lark's funny behaviour though, as she looked up at her with an expression she dearly hoped resembled disdain. "Yes, Lark?"

The Lark shuffled again. "Forgive me, Éponine … well, you see your Papa told me that you were the mistress tonight, as your sister is born … and I've finished the polishing … is there anything else you'd like me to do?"

Éponine considered this. She didn't know all the chores the Lark performed, so she named the only ones she could think of. "Have you swept and polished the floors, and scrubbed down the tables?"

A nod. "Oh, yes. It was the first thing I did upon waking this morning." The Lark shuffled her feet and looked down at them, at her bare and wiggling toes. "It's the first task I always complete when I wake in the mornings."

"Then," Éponine let the word stretch out, "I suppose you needn't do any work tonight, for I can't think of anything else. Sit here and watch us play instead," she ordered, and the Lark hastened to do so. Éponine's eyes flicked down to the doll in her arms, then back up again. Her eyes narrowed and her brow furrowed, the picture of five-year-old scepticism. "How can you be so sure that the baby will be a girl, anyhow? You said _my sister_."

"Well," the Lark replied quietly, "her first two children were girls, and you and Azelma always say so, so I suppose the baby must be." She shrugged and looked at Éponine and Azelma nervously. "I'd be surprised if the child turned out to be a boy."

Éponine looked at the Lark a moment, then realised she agreed with her logic and nodded. She turned to Nöelle. "You know what my doll's name is, don't you, little Lark?" When the Lark bit her lip and shook her head, Éponine sighed heavily. "Her name is Nöelle," she replied in disapproval, and was about to criticise the Lark for not knowing when the door to the inn burst open and through the doorway, she could see Papa and the midwife. They didn't glance at the parlour as they hurried past, and Éponine could hear their rushed footsteps clomping up the stairs. The elder Thénardier girl stood and padded over to the doorway, watched as Papa and the midwife mounted the steps.

Éponine didn't know how the baby was going to be born, or what the midwife was going to do that Maman couldn't do by herself. But she did know that today she would take every advantage of her small power over the household. Mind you, there were very few people to order about – just Azelma and the Lark – but she would still be able to tell them both what to do. And perhaps she'd be able to order about any travellers who were to come by the inn. She dearly hoped there would be, for then she'd be able to tell them she was the innkeeper and that tonight their business was closed. She relished saying these words, relished her fantasised power.

A thought occurred to her. If she was in charge, it meant she would be able to conduct all of Maman's jobs, and while that included the precious luxury of ordering Azelma and Cosette about and being in charge of them, it also meant she'd be able to do things she was never permitted to do the rest of the time. The first thing that crossed her mind was climbing trees, but it was wintertime and what was the fun of climbing trees in the wintertime, when they were dead and barren and icy? She could, she understood, also perform tasks like cooking. Éponine had never wanted to do chores, save for cooking because there was something deliciously forbidden in handling the wood stove by herself, but the chores were up to the Lark.

Éponine knew that the Lark often helped Maman in the kitchen. Cosette never used the wood stove, but she did do things such as cutting the vegetables and meat. Her help would be required, for Éponine hadn't the faintest idea how to cut meat properly. In fact, she did not even know how to handle the wood stove at all. She didn't know how to put the firewood in, or for that matter, to light the fire. Perhaps she wouldn't do the cooking. Perhaps she'd have Cosette cut some baguette and cheese, so that they could have that for dinner instead.

Footsteps. It was Papa, and he came downstairs looking quite weary. Éponine stood and ran to him. "Has the baby been born yet?" she asked. "For I should like to see her, and name her, too."

Papa patted Éponine on the head. "No, the baby's not been born yet. I should think it will take a few hours. I've come down because as you should well understand, Éponine, the birthing of a child is a job for women, and I don't want to get involved."

"Am I still in charge?" Éponine demanded. If Papa had come downstairs, then she feared she'd be robbed of her place as mistress of the household for the day, and that simply was unjust. "You did tell me I could be, Papa." She crossed her arms and looked at him with a five-year-old's stubbornness.

Papa laughed and told Éponine she was free to go on running the house for the day, if she wished to. She was, after all, to inherit this inn and it would be good practise for her, he said. "I mustn't stop my little girl from getting into business well ahead of time." He parted then, went to the eating room to go about his own work, and write up some bills.

Éponine returned to her playing with Azelma, and had Cosette sit and watch. When a sudden gust of wind whipped the door to the entrance of the inn open with cold force and sent a chill through the rooms, Éponine decided it was too cold for Nöelle and the doll of hers that Azelma played with, Minou. It was of course ridiculous to name a doll _kitten_, but Éponine thought the name a sweet one. Minou was her doll, and no one had any authority over what she should be named. No one had any authority over the names of any of her dolls. But with the chill, she ordered the Lark to knit a little scarf for each of the two dolls. "I shall," the Lark replied softly, "but it will take me a terribly long time. I won't have it ready for a day or two yet, I'm afraid."

"Then you'd best start knitting it now," Éponine snapped, and the Lark scuttled off to begin her first assigned task from the little Thénardier mistress without complaint.

Eventually, Azelma grew very bored with Minou, because she was one of Éponine's older dolls and one of her button eyes was coming loose of its threading. "Why don't we just go up to our chambers and fetch one of your own dolls, then?" Éponine huffed.

"But Papa said – "

"Papa said I am in charge. We shan't be bothering Maman, we'll only be fetching the dolls from our room." Éponine promptly stood and tossed her head, sending her ebony locks bouncing. Azelma followed her now, and the sisters crept quietly upstairs, careful not to make the floorboards creak. They slipped quietly into their bedroom and took Azelma's doll Pénélope from her spot on the shelf, then back out again. However, on their way back downstairs as they passed Maman's bedroom, Éponine approached the closed door and pressed her ear to it, beckoned for her sister to join her. She did not think Azelma would protest, because Azelma always listened. And listen Azelma did, as she crawled over to join Éponine at the door, though the thought of breaking the one rule they had today frightened her and did not stop her from widening her eyes.

Though the wood was thick, they could hear through the door quite well if they cupped their hands round their ears. They could hear the midwife moving round the room, and they could hear her talking to Maman in a soothing tone, though the words were indecipherable. What they did hear was the a certain curse word spat out, namely the word _merde_, said many times over and over again. It was a curse word Éponine had heard before but had been forbidden to utter, so it was shocking to hear it coming from behind the door. More disturbingly, however, they could hear strange noises, somewhere between loud groans and whimpers. They'd not been expecting that, and it frightened Éponine. "It sounds like a dying animal," she observed, drawing back from the door when she was unable to take it any longer. "Let's go downstairs." She stood, and just like always, Azelma followed.

"Was that Maman moaning so?" Azelma asked.

"It couldn't have been," replied Éponine with certainty. "Why would Maman make such noises?" She saw no reason for Maman to groan and whimper, especially since she was _Maman_, strong and tough. "Perhaps it was the baby coming out. Babies cry when they're born, you know."

The sisters spent the remainder of the day playing with their dolls, and a bit later, they ran outside and played in the snow. No travellers stopped by the inn, much to Éponine's disappointment. Eventually, as the sky began to darken into the defined blackness of nighttime, Éponine found herself growing sleepy and was about to tell Azelma they ought to go to bed when a knock came at the door. It could only be a traveller, Éponine was sure, so she let out an excited shout as she shot to her feet, all tired thoughts obliterated, and answered the door. As she had anticipated, it was a man with a large valise and dark whiskers. "Have you rooms for the night, child? Where are your parents – the keepers of this inn, I presume?" A traveller, indeed, then.

Feeling gleeful, Éponine dropped into a tidy curtsy, like a lady. Maman was no lady, Éponine knew, but the five-year-old saw no reason why she couldn't be herself. Looking up at him, she said, "_I_ am the runner of the inn. No rooms tonight, _monsieur_. The inn is closed." And promptly shut the door. She turned on her heel and skipped back into the parlour, ignoring the way the traveller pounded on the door, despite having been told the inn was closed. That was the irritating way of grown-ups; they never believed children.

Éponine and Azelma went to bed then, turning out the oil-lamp and curling up on their cots. A day of hard play had worn them out so, and they did not engage in whispered conversations. Not tonight. Instead they lay down and fell asleep, each dreaming of the sister sure to be born in the morning.

oOo

The baby was born overnight, and it was not a girl, but a boy, a fact quite shocking to Éponine. She'd not expected a brother, nor did she particularly want one. When she woke, she had been able to hear him crying, and she sat bolt upright and had dashed to Maman's room only to find, to her great disappointment, a brother indeed. And it was apparent that Maman and Papa were disappointed too, especially Maman, for she refused to hold her son, and left the cradling of the newborn babe up to the midwife.

The boy was sickly upon birth, and too small. He would not live for very long, the midwife regretfully informed them, perhaps a month or two at most. "All for the better," Maman sniffed. "I never cared much for boys. If he's to die, then I see little point in naming him."

Maman spent a few days in bed to rest after the baby's birth, but she recovered and returned to her usual activities, amongst which involved running the inn again – stripping Éponine of her few hours of authority – and shouting and beating the Lark. But Maman also left the Lark with a new task, and that was looking after the baby: quieting him when he bawled, mostly, and cleaning him up when he wet himself. The only thing Maman did that the Lark didn't in caring for the baby was feeding him milk from her breast, which she did only twice a day.

Éponine wondered if, and waited for, the baby to die, but he did not. A month had passed and he was still alive. Sickly but alive, and nameless. He had been dubbed simply as the Baby, and with no title other than that. Éponine had not wanted a brother at first, but now she found herself fascinated by him, and overwhelmed by a funny need to protect her unnamed brother, to keep him safe. She did not want him to die. Though Maman had instructed both of her daughters not to bother themselves with him, Éponine often found herself slipping into Maman and Papa's bedroom and bending down next to his cradle to look at him. He didn't do anything particularly interesting, per se, save for gurgle and cry (though he eventually stopped crying in her presence), but she liked to watch him, and take his little hands in her own, marvelling at how _tiny_ they were. She wondered if she herself had ever been so small, or if the Baby was only this tiny because he was sickly. Either way, she found herself fascinated with her baby brother. Every time she crept into his room and took those tiny fingers in hers, the five-year-old would silently plead with him. _Please don't die. Please get better, for I think that I should like to have a brother to play wit, once you are a little older. Please don't die._

February came and passed. Then March. April. And the Baby, while he was still small, grew stronger and stronger and it soon became clear that the Baby would most likely not die. Then came a day in May, when Éponine was crouched on the floor and watching him as he slept, she heard the door open and turned around, startled, hoping it was not Maman.

It was not. To her surprise, it was the Lark, holding the broom that was still taller than she herself. The Lark seemed startled to see Éponine there, but as she leaned her broom against the wall and approached the cradle, she seemed more at ease than she usually was. Though her blue eyes darted to Éponine nervously, they returned to the Baby in his cradle, and she picked him up in her own frail little arms and rocked him back and forth gently. He stirred and gurgled, then returned to sleep. The Lark continued rocking him, her own fingers gently stroking his soft tufts of hair – blonde, like her own, funny enough. She hummed a tune to him very gently, the old French folk song _Au Claire de Lune_. Éponine remained where she was, kneeling on the floor, looking up at the Lark and watching, bewildered by the gentle way that the servant girl handled her brother.

After a short while, the Lark looked up and said quietly, "If you wish, Éponine, I might show you how to hold him yourself. It seems to me that you'd like to." When Éponine nodded and stood. Slowly, carefully, Cosette reached over and put the Baby in Éponine's arms, nodding in quiet approval when Éponine followed her example by holding him properly. "Yes, like that," she whispered. "Like that."

A beat. Then, the Lark asked softly, "You don't think he shall die, do you? I don't want him to die."

"He won't die," Éponine replied as she looked down into the Baby's slumbering face, and it was in that moment that she knew it to be true.


	4. Unspeakable Things

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**Always Get Our Share**

oOo

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Chapter Four: Unspeakable Things

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**September 1821**

As Éponine approached the schooling age, certain exceptions had been made in the few rules she was expected to keep. The most important one, to her, was that she now had permission to walk to and from the village square alone and as she pleased, and this she delighted in. Now six years old and feeling quite grown-up, Éponine seized every opportunity to go to the main square, whether it was to find other children to play with or that she wanted sweets when Maman was too tired to take her. At times, she even got the opportunity to escort the Lark to the baker's or butcher's, and while Cosette did the shopping, Éponine would admire the dolls and omnifarious figurines in the window of the toy shop. On these visits, she would always be given a small coin or two to spend to her liking by Maman, though she would always press a finger to her lips and tell Éponine, "Take it, and _be sure_ to give me the change. And you mustn't tell your Papa; for you know how he is with money." Éponine would always take the coin, and she would spend it, give Maman the change, and not tell Papa. She _did_ know how he was with money. Papa liked to keep his money, and he did not like to spend much of it on anything. Éponine never understood why, because it seemed to her that Papa had a good deal money more than she. She only ever got a weekly _sou_ or two. And he always seemed to come up with it in the most elaborate means, more even than what he charged the customers on their bills. Once, Papa had charged a traveller five Francs for his room, wine, and full meal, but when the customer left, Papa had a full six Francs. Éponine had asked him where he'd gotten the other one, to which he'd replied with a tweak of her nose, "There are many more ways with coming up with money than you understand, Éponine. Even, I daresay, better ways!"

Éponine had walked to the square so many times that she knew her way off by heart. She also knew her way to Montfermeil's schoolhouse, a jumble of small, single-room buildings located in the outskirts of the other side of the village in a field and surrounded by a picket fence. She was terribly excited, for she would soon be able to tell Azelma all the exciting things she was sure to learn. She had also received a couple of fresh new dresses for the beginning of the school year, already neatly pressed and in her armoire.

Aside from such an exciting part of her young life, Éponine's continued on as normal, though the Baby had not died. In fact, he was now, at nine months old, a healthy infant, though he still cried quite a lot. And he'd not yet been named. Maman hated it when her son cried, and did not try to hide the fact. Sometimes, when she was busy with the customers in the eating room as Éponine and Azelma played in the parlour, his wails would reach them. In the past, Éponine had run into the eating room and announced, "Maman, he's crying again!" But whenever she did this, Maman always snorted and said she ought to let the brat wail a while longer, that it would be good for him to learn self-discipline from his earliest months, and promptly ignored him. Usually, it would be left to the Lark to hurry upstairs and console him, if she was permitted to. When she was not, then Éponine would slip upstairs herself to hold him and cease his cries, for it did bother her immensely to see him bawl his little lungs out and not be attended to. She wondered if she'd cried as much as he when she was a baby herself.

Business at the inn continued to flourish, and with it, the gossip. All the local guests exchanged their thoughts on the latest scandal, and the travellers would whisper of scandals in their own hometowns. None of the guests were especially rich, though a few were wealthier than others, but nor were they ever paupers. And of course, any good citizen, be it from a big city like Paris or the little village of Montfermeil, knew to get their hands on the latest news. Maman was always happy to join in on the gossiping, and even shared her own words when once questioned about the Lark. The Lark had been scrubbing down one of the tables in the eating room when one man travelling with his wife proclaimed, "I say! What a sorry-looking child. She's your assistant, Madame, I take it?"

"Yes, quite — my assistant. Not our own child, of course. She's a brat abandoned by her own mother we took her in out of charity. The mother came to stay the night and took off, leaving her own child behind without a shred of love. Just the woman and her daughter. No husband." Maman lowered her voice. "I daresay she was probably born out of wedlock. It's only natural. She's not especially useful about these parts, in fact she's an idle brat, but we simply had to take her in. How could we leave a poor, orphaned child out on the streets with two — and now three, mind you! — of our own?"

Éponine still did not know what it meant to be _born out of wedlock_. One day, her curiosity got the better of her and she asked Maman. Maman, who'd been hanging up the washing for the week as the Lark was preoccupied in fetching water from the well, had given Éponine a dark look and replied, after gathering her firstborn in an embrace, "You needn't know such things, dear. All you need to know is that it's quite dreadful and worthy of an impressive scandal." And then she'd swatted Éponine's bottom lightly and said, "My dear, I don't want you thinking about things like that at all. Why don't you go practise your letters for when you begin schooling next week?" So Éponine had gone to practise her letters and showed off her neat print to Azelma.

Now, that week had passed, and it was indeed time for Éponine to begin school. The eldest Thénardier girl was dressed in her new gown, free of wrinkles and full of lace, and wore a new bonnet on her head, under which peeked her long ebony locks that Maman had spent nearly half an hour running a brush through that morning. Éponine's hair fell loose around her shoulders, an unusual change from her ringlets, but she'd not wanted her hair done up because all the other village girls wore their hair down for school. She also had a new book-bag, which held her slate and small box of chalk. Pens with inkwells and paper were all held at the school, so she need not buy one herself from the shop. This was something of disappointment to the six-year-old; she would have liked her very own inkwell and pen. But now she stood on the front stoop with Maman making final fusses over her and Azelma standing in the doorway looking miserable. "Why can I not go to school too?" she'd been whining for the past few days now. "I'm only a year younger!" Meanwhile, Éponine was feeling impatient as Maman fixed her collar and smoothed her skirt out over and over again. When at last Maman declared Éponine ready, she planted a kiss on her daughter's cheek and went back inside. Just as Éponine began to go, she was surprised to see the Lark stepping out of the inn and falling into step next to her.

Éponine glanced sidelong at her. "Whatever are _you_ doing? You're not to come to school with me, are you?" she asked in sudden mortification as the idea came to her. After all, the Lark was but a few months younger than she and technically also of the schooling age. She looked Cosette up and down. The Lark was wearing her usual rags and her feet were bare as always, but she carried a new-looking sack in one hand.

To her great relief, Cosette shook her head. "Me? Oh, no. I'm just to go to the baker's, your Maman — Madame — says. She instructed me to go with you." She paused, then looked down at her bare and dirty feet. "Forgive me," she added, almost as an afterthought, although what the apology was for remained unclear. Éponine, meanwhile, feeling reassured, nodded and the brief conversation fell short.

oOo

After a short while, Cosette stopped at the baker's as she was meant to and Éponine continued on her way. Cosette watched her go, watched until the other little girl dressed all in lace and frills and a nice dress turned a corner and was out of sight. She stared after her a moment before stepping into the bakery. The baker glowered at her as she entered, like everyone else in the village did. Cosette avoided his sharp gaze, avoided his eyes the colour of sharp blue ice, and fumbled in her pocket for the ten-_sous_ piece Madame had given to her with a shake by the shoulders and a hissed, "And don't you lose it!" When her fingers wrapped around the coin's cool surface, she placed it on the counter and meekly asked for bread, as much as she could buy for ten _sous_. The baker grudgingly took the money and in exchange, shoved a few loaves of white baguette at her, as wells as the usual two _brioche à tête_, which Madame's two daughters would eat that evening, perhaps with their supper but more likely in the afternoon. She meekly thanked him and hurried from the shop, sparing herself a glance at the dolls in the window of the toy shop on her way.

Those porcelain dolls always seemed to call to her whenever she passed them, finer even than the dolls of 'Ponine and 'Zelma. She longed to touch one of those dolls — just to touch one, to brush her fingers against the satin of their little gowns or run her fingers through their real hair. Mind you, even to be able to hold the rag dolls owned by 'Ponine and 'Zelma would be a great honour to her, for Cosette did not have even that. What she did have was a very tiny doll she'd made for herself, by tying scraps of rags together in hastily-done knots. It did not look much like a doll at all, but it was all Cosette had and she'd christened her Adeline. She kept Adeline well hidden under the pile of rags that served as her bed, because she might not be allowed to keep her. If Madame found out about Adeline, Cosette didn't know what she might do. Perhaps throw her doll in the fire, and Cosette wasn't sure she could stand it if Madame did that. She had so little love, so little _to_ love in her life. She loved Adeline, and she supposed she loved the Baby too, or if she did not love him she cared for him. He was too tiny to even understand to be unkind like his sisters. There had been a dog she'd loved as well, who would always come and lie next to her during the night and the heat of his body would keep her warm. But he'd been such an old dog and had died last year.

Cosette considered this briefly as she walked, holding the bag of warm breads as close as she could. The day was a slightly chilly and cloudy one, the sky an insensate, newspaper grey, and she knew better than to expect Madame and Monsieur to buy her anything for the winter months. But as she saw the inn appear in the distance, her thoughts turned to those of her chores. She made a mental list in her head and checked off every task she'd completed this morning. She'd swept the floors and she'd made all the beds. She had a great many tasks ahead of her, but she'd been living with the Thénardiers for so long now that she'd stopped thinking of her chores as hard work, but rather, as something that simply must be completed so she'd be given supper and spared a beating. When her mother, whom she remembered only as a nameless face with long dark hair and a pretty white dress, had left her here, Cosette had been just two, nearing three. Cosette was five now, and six come November. She no longer remembered her birthday, for Madame and Monsieur hardly acknowledged such things, but she did know that it came in November.

Cosette opened the back door to the inn and slipped inside, where she set the bread on the table and hurried upstairs to polish the upstairs windows, which Madame had complained were dirty and unattractive just last night. She started with the bedroom of Madame and Monsieur, which faced the road, and was also where the Baby slept. She bent down by his cradle and watched as he lay there a moment before standing and fetching her cleaning rag, returning to her long list of chores for the day.

oOo

Whatever Éponine had expected out of school, it certainly wasn't this. _This_ bored her, and it quickly dawned on her that the other children in her class knew less than she did. Why, some of them could not even write anything more than their names! Éponine could write _her_ own full name, she could write Azelma's, she could write the name of her village (a true challenge, because _Montfermeil_ had so many letters) and several other words. And she'd not anticipated that numbers would be so very tedious. She'd grown bored very quickly, and had taken to doodling pictures with her chalk on her slate. She had been caught in the process by the schoolteacher, who threatened to strike her knuckles with a ruler if she did it again. Éponine didn't see how this was fair, because if the numbers had not been so boring she would not have been motivated to draw on her slate in the first place.

When the time came for the children to have a half-hour's break to play outside in the field, Éponine was thrilled. She and her schoolmates leaped from their desks and hurried out of the small building to play and join the other students in years above them. As soon as she stepped outside however, Éponine felt herself at a loss of what to do, for she knew none of the others very well and hence had no one to play with: something of great misery to a six-year-old. She spied most of the girls gathering under the shade of trees to play a game with the dolls and wooden animals they'd brought with them in their book-bags. One girl, named Adélaïde, had a small, but very real ivory elephant, instantly spurring the awe of her schoolmates. Éponine would have liked to have joined them, but she'd not thought to bring one of her dolls or wooden animals with her, and knew fully well she'd be estranged by the other girls if she asked to join them but had no toys of her own. So she joined the rowdier crowd; the boys. They did, at first, laugh at her when she came to play with them, all in her frilly skirts and bonnet, because she was a _girl_ and girls were not to play games with the boys. "I don't know," one of the boys replied sceptically, crossing his arms over his chest, "whatever makes you think you'll want to play as we do? You'll only soil your dress." This seemed to strike him and his friends as terribly funny, for they all burst into the loud and boyish guffaws of six-year-olds.

Éponine scowled furiously, hot-headed over their behaviour towards her. Why, if only they could see her playing the games she played at the inn, with the sons of some of the travelling men! She could climb a tree high enough to brush her fingers against the skies and could run faster than most of them, so long as she hitched up her skirts high enough. Her own arms crossed, Éponine replied, "Why don't I climb that tree and show you what I can do, then?" She pointed to the nearest tree, a tall oak with twisted limbs and bark more wrinkled than the skin of an old man.

She'd surprised the boys, Éponine could tell, for they all stepped back to give her room. Gritting her teeth, she raised her skirts and took hold of the lowest branch, pulled herself up. She was an _innkeeper's_ daughter, the daughter of a woman who was anything but a lady. And, heavens, did she ever know to climb a tree. In fifteen minutes she was at the very top, sure she would have been able to reach it must faster had she not been wearing a dress, and reached out a hand to touch a clouded sky the colour of newspaper.

oOo

As Maman prepared some soup for the night's customers over the wood stove, Éponine, having returned home from school, ratted off a description of the day's events in full detail, spending most of it on her climb up the tree. Maman listened in the way that grown-ups had, nodding but not paying very much attention. When Éponine was finished her tale, Maman said, "That's all very nice, dear. Now, why don't you run off and have the lovely treat I've ready for you? In the bag with the baguette — yes, that's the one — there are two fine _brioche à tête_ for you and your sister. Run along now, and fetch Azelma too, she's in the bedroom." As Éponine dug up the _brioche à tête_, Maman gave her a stern look. "I'm always terribly busy, you know, you must remember that. I'm going to water down the wine now, and afterwards I'll have to finish this blasted soup. So be a good girl, and stay out of Maman's and Papa's way."

"Why would you water down the wine?" asked Éponine curiously. "I thought the customers didn't like it like that."

"Hush, Éponine, and don't ask questions," Maman reprimanded her, and Éponine knew better than to press further. She skipped off to find Azelma, who was delighted at the prospect of sitting down for a _brioche à tête_. The sisters ate their treats contentedly in their bedroom, even though Maman and Papa told them they were not to eat anything in the bedrooms for fear that the crumbs would attract mice. Éponine thought that was a silly rule, so she had no qualms in breaking it now, knowing that she wouldn't be caught. One thing Papa had always told her was that the real trick to staying out of trouble was not following the rules, but not getting caught.

As she sat down with her sister, Éponine related her day to Azelma, and Azelma listened intensely. Éponine told of her climbing the tree, and how the boys had reluctantly accepted her as part of their circle. But Éponine didn't want to be friends with them anymore anyway, because as she was leaving the schoolhouse when the day was through, she spied the boys pulling the legs off a spider they'd found, and she didn't want to play with boys like that. She would bring one of her wooden animals to school tomorrow, and play with the girls instead. This wasn't, not by any means, going to stop her from climbing trees sometimes during the break, but she would not do it with the boys.

"Whyever would they hurt the poor spider?" asked a concerned Azelma through a mouthful of _brioche_. "Whatever did that spider ever do to them?"

Éponine shrugged. "Oh, you know what boys are like. Anyhow, you mustn't worry yourself over them. I shan't play with them any longer."

Azelma seemed relieved. "That's good. Oh, how I wish I could join you at school, 'Ponine!"

"You'd have to learn your letters first," Éponine replied teasingly, causing her sister to stick out her tongue. The sisters, having finished their treats, tackled each other, rolling about on the floor like a pair of hooligans, shrieking and giggling, until they finally sat up straight with their hair in their eyes and skirts wrinkled. Azelma's unruly curls took most of the damage, prone to being mussed. Then, Éponine went and showed Azelma the alphabet again, but her sister seemed perplexed and argued she didn't want to learn just now, for there were _so many_.

From there, the girls each chose a doll from the shelf and skipped into the upstairs parlour to play with them. The Lark was there, dusting the furniture. She looked up with wide eyes when she saw the two little Thénardier girls entering, then hastily bowed her head and left the room to attend to some other task. Éponine paid her little mind as she seated herself on the small sofa and Azelma curled up in an armchair. It was all very cosy, though the weather was not quite cold enough to light a fire yet, she was happy to sit there comfortably and cradle her doll, stroking her yarn hair and pretended that the doll was her own little girl. "You see, Mademoiselle," she trilled, "she is my very own little girl. You may hold her if you wish, but be gentle with her, mind! You cannot go dropping my little girl."

Azelma took the doll, setting down her own, but Éponine stopped her, wide-eyed. "No, no. You can't hold her like that!"

"That's how I've always held my dolls," Azelma replied in confusion, but Éponine shook her head.

"It's not proper. I know how to hold babies perfectly now; the Lark taught me."

A snorted laugh. "Why, the Lark?"

Éponine explained. "It's how she holds the Baby." And Azelma didn't argue.


	5. A Good Girl

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**Always Get Our Share**

Author's Note: A frightfully short chapter, I know. Please don't hurt me; the next one's going to be pretty long … I'm thinking 5,000 words or more …

oOo

* * *

Chapter Five: A Good Girl

* * *

**September 1822**

A year passed, and during that year Éponine went to school. She endured each day, though it all bored her. The numbers were simple but dull, and in reading she discovered she was a much faster learner than her fellow students, resulting in that, too, being completely boring. She played with the other village girls, bringing Pénélope with her to school on the second day. Éponine's rag doll was hardly the greatest envy of the other children, but nor was it one to give her cause to be laughed at. Pénélope was simply a doll like those of all the other girls.

Éponine was seven now, and she truly liked to think of herself as grown-up. And Azelma, who was only a few days shy of her sixth birthday, clearly liked to think the same. In the final days of the summer, the younger of the two Thénardier girls paraded about the house giving orders to the Lark and boasted over all manner of things to every guest who visited the inn, even the locals who only came by for the wine and the gossip. She was also clearly ecstatic that she was to begin schooling herself now, and refused to listen to her elder sister as to just what a bore school truly was. Azelma thrilled in keeping her new book-bag, slate, and box of chalk that Maman had purchased for her under her bed, and oftentimes she would dash up to her chambers simply to peek and admire the new items, probably fantasising about the upcoming days when she'd be able to use them all.

The Lark, meanwhile, continued to work and be miserable, pitiful, earning Éponine's quiet scorn. The summer of 1822 had been a sticky, hot one, the kind that caused your clothes to cling ever-so-affectionately to your back, and she was often caught splashing the day's water onto her face to cool off, or stopping in the shade instead of sweeping. Whenever this happened, she would be struck by Maman, and then she would cry and scream out. Her wails, just as loud and clear as they'd always been, still disturbed Éponine, even though the girl knew that the Lark deserved it, and she was too grown-up to feel that way.

Besides, the Lark looked after the Baby, who was nearly two years of age now. He still hadn't a name, and he spoke very little. He certainly still cried enough to make Maman silently seethe. The Baby was small for his years, but not sickly. He did, in fact, look quite healthy, with his head of ash blond hair and his bright blue eyes. He looked very different than any of the other Thénardiers — his sisters especially, with their big brown doe's eyes. He would, on occasion, walk around, for he had been quick to learn to move about. But he never went far, never really left the upstairs parlour, because Maman made it clear she had no interest in seeing her son. She still did not love him, and not once had she sat him on her knee and bounced him up and down, as she had her daughters as infants. The only thing that resembled care Maman had ever given the Baby had all passed now, for he no longer needed milk. All the care that the youngest of the Thénardier children received came from the Lark, and his sisters. Because Éponine still loved her brother, she'd decided, even if Maman and Papa did not. Éponine never told her mother of the time she spent with the Baby, and if she noticed then she did not mention it. Certainly, Papa noticed nothing. Papa never paid much attention to anything that did not involve his business.

Oh, but Éponine was used to it. She was seven years old, her sister nearly six. She was used to the funny way her family worked, which to her, wasn't funny at all.

In the days before school was indeed due to begin, which continued to seem to excite Azelma beyond words, business at the inn mounted spectacularly, and Papa began to involve Éponine in helping about. Not by cleaning of course, for that was the job of the Lark, but aiding Maman in serving the guests. Éponine was asked to do very little, not much more than what she'd done all the time. But both she and her sister were being encouraged to strike up conversation with the travellers. Éponine didn't always like performing such tasks, for she didn't like all the men. Most of the time their breath stank of alcohol and they were unshaven, their scruffy beards clinging to their faces in a mess of hair that also caught the putrid scent of their breath. And their gruff voices always bothered her too. The way their tongues seemed to be too thick for their mouths and their words never came out properly, almost in slurs. She did not know all of their names, only that they were men who lived on the other side of the village. None of them were the fathers of her schoolmates. She supposed that the men must not have children. And once, while Éponine was doing her numbers at an unoccupied table on an April night a few months before, one of the men had come up behind her and gave a dry, stinking chuckle she didn't understand. Strange and awful, that's what they were. Strange and awful.

But Éponine continued to do as Maman asked. She would stand nearby their tables and rock one of her dolls, or talk to them as sweetly as possible. Oftentimes, whenever she and Azelma did this Maman would come up very close to the men, and she would go through their bags or reach her fingers into their pockets. Then, she'd be gone just as quickly. The first time this happened, Éponine had been confused, startled, and asked Maman. "Isn't that stealing, Maman?" she asked. "Why did you take their things?"

"It's not stealing, my princess," Maman had replied, sorting through a pile of various items she had arranged on the counter. "It's only taking what we need. It's getting by. There's a great difference, you see. And besides, don't you know your Papa does the same thing all the time? It's just the way of business. Why, I should think that a clever little girl like you should understand that. Now, it's quite late. Go off to bed, and don't ask questions." A swat at her daughter's bottom and Éponine was off scampering to bed and not asking questions, like a good girl.

That had all taken place a few short months ago, though, and Maman's behaviour had become something Éponine was well used to and did not treat with scepticism. She didn't ask any questions and talked to the guests while Maman and sometimes Papa went about their business, getting by as they said. Azelma certainly never asked any questions, but then, Azelma was so very different than her sister in that sense. She did as she was told, and she took comfort in having figures of authority in her life, in having rules to go by.

Today, the first day of school, Éponine and Azelma stood on the stoop with Maman fretting over their dresses neath a proud blue sky dotted with the occasional white semicolon of a cloud. The dresses were brand-new, too: Éponine's a fresh robin's egg blue, and Azelma's a vibrant fuchsia. Both gowns had lace at their collars and hems, and to go with them were two small bonnets with the satin ribbons tied to neatly under the Thénardier sisters' chins. Maman went on fussing, and when at last she let her daughters go and the girls took to walking hand-in-hand, Azelma delivered a confession. "I'm terribly nervous, 'Ponine. I don't know my letters very well."

Éponine sighed. "That's only because you didn't practise. And because you were stubborn. Don't worry, 'Zelma, none of the children in my class could spell much more than their names last year. You shall learn." She gave a toss of her head that sent her good girl's ebony locks bouncing about her shoulders. When her sister remained silent, Éponine frowned. "Whatever's the matter? You know how to spell your name, at least, don't you?" Nothing. "Well, you must know how to spell _Azelma_ at least, if not our surname."

Azelma's response was small. "I ... I think I do."

"Well, go on then; spell it." Éponine made her voice both a challenge and an encouragement.

"Well ... it's ... " Azelma stumbled on the words. "I ... it's ... " She took a deep breath and tried again. "_A-S _— "

She was interrupted as Éponine stopped short in her tracks and looked at her sternly. "_Z_, 'Zelma. Your spell your name with a _Z_. It's _A-Z-E-L-M-A_." Éponine shook her head. "Ye gods, Azelma. If you cannot spell even your own name ... well, you'd best learn quickly." She let her younger sister absorb the words before she looked up at the sky. "Well, we'll be late if we don't hurry. Come, let's go, and I'll race you!"

Despite the strain of their long skirts, Éponine and Azelma took off at a run, laughing and tripping and emitting shrieks of, "Slow down, not so quickly!" in a fashion that was most unladylike. But they were children, and Thénardier children at that, so they ignored the stares, the shakes of the head, and went on running and laughing. And, children that they were, they found a special sort of thrill in the _crunch _of gravel beneath their boots, and in racing to the side of the road and out of the way when a carriage railed past. When they at last reached the schoolhouses, it was Éponine who won.

oOo

Spilling out of the schoolhouse in a flurry of little limbs with her classmates, Éponine straightened her skirt and skimmed the field for her sister. Being seven, she was a little taller now, and had an easier view. After perhaps a minute of standing on her toes she spotted her sister exiting the schoolhouse for the youngest children. Azelma had her head down, mess of auburn curls hiding her face from view, and her shoulders were slumped. She crossed the field and sat beneath a tree, looking thoroughly miserable. Éponine dashed up to her. "Whatever's the matter?"

Azelma looked up with a tear-streaked face and lifted knuckles marked the red of a ruler's strike. "I couldn't do the reading that I was asked to, because the words were just so very big and long and confusing, and then the teacher struck me and Adèle told me I was stupid, that I came from a family of criminals! But I _don't_, and I'm _not_ stupid." Her voice was choked, and she seemed thoroughly distressed. "Adèle said that once her Papa came to our inn and that his pockets were picked of every last spare coin, by our Maman. He said she stole it all."

Éponine recalled seeing Maman reaching into the pockets of the travellers, but Maman had said it wasn't _stealing_, so it was plain that this Adèle was lying. Probably her Papa was what Maman called _lying scum_. Éponine drew Azelma close and said in a gentle tone, "Well, Adèle was lying. Which one is she, then? You must show me." She followed Azelma's finger as her sister pointed to a young girl with ribbons in her long and glossy black hair, a sash round her waist, wearing a dress with a train, and holding a porcelain doll. She was surrounded by a gaggle of other girls in similar dress. Clearly, she was a bourgeoisie. Papa had told her of the bourgeois, and how they were all pretentious and greedy and didn't share their wealth. She explained the concept to Azelma, who seemed somewhat comforted that Adèle was merely one of _those_. She was still upset about being punished by the teacher, but, Éponine promised, if she kept with her studies she would quickly learn, and show that dreadful Adèle that she, too, could be clever.

And then two good little girls took hands and ran about in the fields in fits of laughter. They laughed at the Lark, and they laughed at girls like Adèle. They laughed because they were children, because they were _Mademoiselles_ Éponine and Azelma Thénardier, and one day, Éponine and Azelma Thénardier would be running the Sergeant at Waterloo Inn, mistresses of the house, and they would show everyone just how clever they could be.


	6. The Man in the Yellow Coat

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**Always Get Our Share**

Author's Note: This chapter does go back on a lot of scenes in the Brick, but they are my own slightly different take on the parts we are all familiar with, because they're rather different than the same scenes in the musical, too. This chapter also features mostly Cosette, but then, this is such an important stage in Éponine's life it really does deserve its own chapter.

oOo

* * *

Chapter Six: The Man in the Yellow Coat

* * *

**December 1823**

Cosette knew it was not her place or business to become involved in the matters of Madame, Monsieur, and their children. And for the most part, she didn't. She kept quiet and stayed small and did as she was told, always, sympathising only with the Baby, who remained unloved by both his parents. For her, every day was miserable and a struggle, and she took comfort only in her dreams, which were pleasant and full of relief. And now it was wintertime, the season she dreaded the most because she was never given anything to protect her from the cold, not even one of the cloaks that 'Ponine and 'Zelma (the special nicknames the Thénardier sisters called each other, and the ones Cosette used for them in the privacy of her mind) had discarded, for they received a new one every year. But Cosette went on working, for work granted her a small meal for the night, and clung tightly to her dreams. Sometimes, though, secretly, she wondered at the Thénardier family and their strange habits. For, while she knew very little, she did know that the lot of them were _terribly_ strange. Most of all she wondered at how 'Ponine was capable of being so nasty at times, and yet so gentle with her younger siblings. Certainly, 'Ponine didn't seem to always do as she was told: in fact she struck Cosette as loud and bold.

But it was hardly her place to question and wonder such things, and Cosette, who was only a little over eight now, had long since learned that if she was to survive she was to remain meek and quiet and do whatever Madame demanded of her, no matter how tired she was and no matter how difficult the task. For many of her duties _were_ exceedingly difficult and she struggled with them. Most importantly, Cosette had learned to take her beatings quietly. It was impossible not to cry out whenever she felt the _crack_ of the strap on her body, but she knew better than to protest or beg.

Today was Christmas Eve, and a day like no other for Cosette. Evening had come to Montfermeil by now, and being winter, it was already quite dark outside. Shadows ruled the streets and paths of the village. And, of course, being Christmas Eve, the air was heavy with excitement from 'Ponine and 'Zelma as they ran about the inn with their precious dolls and talked about whatever Père Nöel might bring them tonight in their sleep. They had already insisted that Cosette sweep the fireplace so that it would be clean as possible for Père Nöel when he came down the chimney.

The inn was terribly busy tonight; more so than usual, even, which naturally resulted in more noise than usual. All of Monsieur's customers seemed to be rowdy and loud, and Cosette didn't like any of them. She tried to ignore their noises as she washed the dirty dishes, of which there were piles. She also tried to ignore the giggles of 'Ponine and 'Zelma as they played and were happy on Christmas Eve. Their conversation from where they sat by the warmth of the fire in the downstairs parlour floated into the kitchen, their words light and happy. Only Éponine's voice carried, but hers had always been louder than her sister's, and she did most of the talking between the two, as well. "Oh, and _have_ you seen the dolls in the Christmas stands, 'Zelma? Don't you think them lovely this year? … Have you a favourite? Well, I know what mine is: the prettiest and biggest one … Yes, that one precisely. I'd like to have her for myself … wouldn't you?"

Cosette didn't know the doll of which she spoke, having not passed through the main square for a few days now, but she knew that all the dolls set up in the Christmas stands must be expensive because in the past she'd heard Madame snap at 'Ponine and 'Zelma when they begged for one. All of these dolls she had marvelled at, with their fine porcelain faces and real hair.

She was snapped sharply from her reverie by Madame's harsh shout: "_Cosette_! I hardly believe it! You've let the water run out again, you useless brat!" The eight-year-old spun with a small, startled cry that died in her throat as she saw her mistress entering the room, carrying the large pail in one hand. The executioner's axe. Cosette trembled and bowed her head as Madame grabbed her by one thin wrist. "You did go and fetch some this morning, didn't you? _Didn't you?!_" Cosette only managed to nod and Madame let her go, flinging her to the floor in disgust as she slammed the bucket down onto the ground. "Why, it's run out — so, whatever's the matter with you? Go on, go and draw some from well!" She kicked her foot out as Cosette leapt to her feet, taking the bucket's leather handle and hurrying out the back door. She was greeted by the sharp cold kiss of snow on her bare feet and the cruel embrace of the wind biting at her body.

Of her many tasks, it was the worst to go through with. Cosette hated the woods, especially at night, with their long shadows and unseen branches to trip over. The pail was always so very heavy and its leather handle bit into her fingers when she carried it. Oftentimes she would trip and spill the water on her way back, and be forced to travel all the way back to the well to refill it. And of course it was especially worse in the wintertime, when the water was half frozen over and difficult to retrieve. But she hardly had a place to argue or say a word of protest, so the small girl struggled on. To comfort herself on her way, she sang softly, an old lullaby she had heard 'Ponine sing in the past. The well in the woods was on the other side of the village, unfortunately, meaning she had to take the long road to the main square and then pass the Christmas stalls: a most miserable task, for the village was filled with children just as spiteful as 'Ponine and 'Zelma, and privately, Cosette envied the lot of them. She had only her song to keep her company, a faint and frightened voice in the dark.

As Cosette passed through the main square, she found herself feeling smaller than ever in the crowds that were still gathered there. The people shouldered past her. None of them noticed the tiny, miserable little girl dressed in rags. But Cosette watched the people, and more significantly, she admired the Christmas stalls, for she could not deny the prettiness of them. The frames of the wooden stalls were decorated in holly and mistletoe, and at their fronts were the most tantalising displays of all manner of treats and treasures. Tarts and chocolates at the sweets stall, beautiful gowns and scarves hanging from the dressmaker's stall, but it was the toy stall that caused Cosette to stop in her tracks.

Over the years, the toy stall, set up by a Parisian man and toy-maker, was known to have had enticing displays, displays that would send every child of Montfermeil flocking to see. The most intricately carved wooden animals, ornate china tea-sets, jump-ropes with paintings on their wooden handles, India-rubber balls that bounced better than any of the balls that could be bought at the local _magasin de jouets_, and of course, dolls. Real porcelain dolls. But this year, on her very own stand, was a doll more beautiful than any Cosette had ever seen, a doll that left her breathtaken, child that she was. The doll was a bit smaller than the ones put on display over the past few years, but she was porcelain like all the rest. Her dress was white as the snow that froze Cosette's feet, and lined with lace and frills. The doll's china face was carefully painted: the lightest blush to her cheeks, lips curled into a sweet smile, and twinkling eyes the green of emeralds. She wore a silken bonnet that matched her dress, and from beneath was real hair a fiery red that reminded Cosette of Azelma's hair. But unlike Azelma's mass of untameable curls, the doll's hair was done in perfect, neat ringlets.

"Little child." It was the voice of the toy-maker, laced with impatience. "Do you admire this doll? Have you the money to purchase it?" When Cosette shook her head, he sighed. "Well, you can go on, then. Don't block the roads!" He waved his hands at her, and Cosette quickly bowed her head and kept going, but she couldn't help but spare a timid glance over her shoulder to admire the doll again as she walked away. She returned to being roughly shouldered by the crowds, and slipped away onto a side street that led to the woods, unnoticed as always.

oOo

The woods were not participating in the Christmas cheer. They were just as dark and terrifying as always: long shadows and all. The wind howled through the trees, a forlorn cry. Cosette took a deep breath and returned to her soft singing as she walked along the jagged path. She tripped over a tree root that had wound itself onto the footpath and quickly picked herself up again. She'd skinned her knee; she could feel the sting of it with every step she took from there, but it was a small thing in comparison to the cold and her fear.

She reached the well eventually, finally. Not stopping her song, Cosette bent down to lower the pail into the icy water, and when she came back up again, she released a quiet cry for the weight of it, pulling her body with it. She felt her feet slipping on the snow — when strong arms wrapped themselves around her waist and pulled her to safety. She was set down gently on the ground. The figure took hold of her bucket, and Cosette looked up at him, for he was quite tall. His face was in shadow at first, but he stepped into the light and she took him in quietly, gratefully.

The man was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a top hat and a yellow overcoat. He was older than she'd expected, his hair streaked in grey and a face lined with age and tiredness. Though it was dark, Cosette could see and recognise the weary look in his eyes. When he spoke, however, it was full of a gentleness foreign to her. "Peace, child," he said, "I shan't hurt you. Whatever were you doing alone in the woods on a Christmas night? Why, you're not even wearing a coat. Are you not cold?"

Cosette didn't think to be afraid of him, though she should have, as he was a stranger in the woods at night. But he'd helped her, and she was drawn to the kindness in his voice. She answered him honestly: "I was drawing water, _m'sieur_."

The stranger lifted the bucket and seemed surprised. "This pail seems terribly heavy for a little girl to carry on her own." Cosette nodded shyly, and the man shook his head. "But you _must_ be cold, _petite_. Here: I shall let you borrow my scarf." And promptly removed it from his neck. Cosette reached out and took it wordlessly, and wrapped it round her shoulders, like a shawl, awed by the way it warmed her body so suddenly. The man offered her his arm, and she took it as they began to walk away from the well. She reached for her pail, but he shook his head. "Allow me. Now, where were you headed? It's quite alright; you needn't be afraid."

Cosette hesitated. "I'm not afraid, _m'sieur_ … and, well, we're on the road to the village. My mistress, she runs an inn, you see, if you were searching for a place to rest the night." She had been told time and time again by Madame to advertise their inn to any potential travellers she might meet. Before today, Cosette had never met a traveller before, but she decided she liked this one. He seemed unlike the rude guests that the inn usually seemed to collect. This stranger was kind.

The stranger glanced sidelong at her. "An inn, you say? And your … mistress? Who would she be? Was she the one who sent you to fetch some water?"

"Yes, we'd run out. It's quite alright, _m'sieur_, I do it all the time. But her name is Thénardier, and she runs the inn with her husband and my master." Cosette pulled the scarf closer round her body. It felt so very nice, and she'd be sorry when she had to return it.

The man seemed intrigued, almost, as he glanced over at her again. "Thénardier. Is that what you said?" Cosette nodded, and the man stopped in his tracks as he suddenly bent down to her level and set down the pail. He rested a hand on her shoulder. "Thénardier … oh, dear me. So that would make you … "

"I'm called Cosette," she explained, puzzled by the stranger's behaviour.

The stranger didn't let her go right away, but when he stood and picked the pail up again, there was a stiffness in his movements, and a funny emotion that she couldn't identify when he said his next words. "My God. So you are Cosette. And this is what's happened to you." He shook his head and, to her surprise, removed his overcoat as well and wrapped it around her. He now wore only his vest, and Cosette was puzzled, but she held on tightly to the coat and thanked him in a whisper.

They continued walking a while, before the stranger asked unexpectedly, "Do you do all the work there, child? Or are there others working also? Lady-maids and whatnot?"

Cosette frowned and looked up at him, not understanding. Why would Madame have any else working for her when it was Cosette's place to get it all done? She imagined the inn being run by a household of servants, as she'd heard the elite in Paris had their own homes run, and was bemused by the thought. She shook her head. "Surely not, _m'sieur_. There's just me."

"You tend to all the business there all on your own?"

"Oh, no, _m'sieur_. Monsieur does all of the taxes and bills, and Madame all the cooking. I only do the rest: the cleaning, mostly, and sometimes the shopping."

The stranger's own frown deepened. "And haven't these Monsieur and Madame Thénardier children of their own to help with the chores?" Cosette now registered the stiffness in his steps, too, and wondered at the man's odd behaviour. He asked the strangest of questions, and his kindness towards her was something she was thoroughly unused to. But odd in nature though his questions were, she answered them honestly.

"Oh, yes, they do have children. There's 'Ponine and 'Zelma, their two little daughters who are close to my own age, and then there's their son, the Baby, who's a little over three now."

"The Baby, you say? What's his name?" The stranger asked.

"He hasn't got a name," Cosette explained, and now the man fell silent, but he still frowned. At one point, she saw him raise his eyes to the sky and whisper something, but she didn't hear him, and it didn't seem to be a question, so she said nothing. She instead clung to the warm fabric of the coat and scarf, grateful for them both, and enjoyed these rare, precious moments of happiness.

oOo

It was much later now; most of the customers had either retired to their chambers or returned home after an evening of drinking, but the inn had been so busy that the Thénardiers themselves had not had their own dinner yet, for all the food they'd prepared had been eaten by the guests. Éponine was sitting at one of the tables, drawing pictures on her slate with a piece of chalk all but worn down to a nub, when the front door opened and the Lark walked in. She had a weatherbeaten yellow coat and frayed scarf on, and she clutched the hand of a strange man (a traveller, presumably) who was carrying the pail for her. Of all things! Éponine stared, then got to her feet and ran to Maman, who was stirring some soup in the kitchen over the wood stove. She tugged at her mother's skirt and whispered in her ear for fear of being overheard. Maman drew away with a furrowed brow, and promptly hurried from the kitchen with a sharp order of, "Stay here and mind that you keep out of the way!"

Éponine huffed an impatient sigh as Maman parted, but didn't think to go back to the eating room to retrieve her slate and chalk. Her drawings would have to wait. She instead slipped out of the room and darted up the stairs to her bedroom, where Azelma was now playing with the rag dolls. Her favoured one, Minou, was cradled in her arms, and the others were arranged around her on the floor. When the door creaked open, Azelma looked up and smiled, waving. "'Ponine, come and play with me."

Éponine joined her sister on the floor with her skirts arranged around her and leaned in. She spoke quietly, for fear of being overheard, though she knew it was silly to think so. She related what she'd seen to Azelma, and her sister's eyes grew big as her interest in the dolls quickly disappeared. "Who do you suppose he is?"

"How am I to know?" Éponine scoffed. "I know only what I saw. Perhaps he just took pity on her: the poor and pathetic little Lark, lost in the dark woods. If you really want to know … " she grinned as the idea came to her. "Well, we could go ahead and listen to their conversation."

"But we'd be in trouble if we went down, if Maman told you that. She'd surely send us straight to bed, wouldn't she? How could we listen?" Azelma asked, starting to return her focus to her dolls, and Éponine sighed. She loved her sister, but sometimes Azelma failed to see the simplest mechanisms to rule-breaking. Éponine already had a perfect plan on how to eavesdrop, and it was such a simple one, too.

"Why, we'd listen from the top of the stairs, of course, silly. Let's put on our nightgowns, and don't forget to take off your boots whilst we're listening. Go on, now." Éponine sighed again as Azelma's eyes lit up and her sister hurried to her feet to fetch her nightgown from the armoire, kicking off her boots on her way.

A short few minutes later, the sisters were barefoot in their nightgowns, crouched at the top of the stairs overlooking the eating room. What they saw was not abnormal, at first. The Lark, who had taken off the yellow coat and scarf, was cleaning the counter-tops, and the stranger was seated at the table. What was strange was that both Maman and Papa were seated across from the stranger, and they were conversing. Maman often got herself involved in gossip and conversations with the customers, as would Papa, but it was a rarity to see the both of them sitting down having a proper conversation with a guest. And such a strange guest he was too, the man in the yellow coat, for the coat must be his. He had not ordered a meal, just a glass of wine. That coat was battered, but underneath it Éponine had seen he wore a fine-looking vest, finer than anything her own Papa had.

Azelma had opened her mouth to ask a question, and Éponine hurriedly shushed her. Already they were in full view if anyone – Maman, Papa, or the Yellow Coat Man – were to look up, and the last thing they needed was to be heard. They were here to listen, not to speak. Azelma fell silent, and the sisters took to eavesdropping and watching quietly. Éponine had been worried that the adults would be discussing something silly and boring, like taxes and politics, or perhaps Papa would be telling his story about his labours and heroic actions in the war, but she was surprised. For the conversation she overheard now was in fact a strange and unexpected one.

The adults were not discussing politics and taxes. Papa was not accounting tales of his time in the war. They seemed to be discussing the Lark, though why, Éponine couldn't fathom. And not Maman's usual gossip either, oh, no. The words they used were strange to Éponine Thénardier, and they caused the eight-year-old to frown. A glance at her sister showed that Azelma seemed to going through the same confusion.

" … we've treated her like our own daughter, _monsieur_, like one our own … " Maman was saying, while looking at the Lark, who was still wiping the counter-top. Maman suddenly broke into a smile and her arms out. "My darling child, my princess, come here, you need not tire yourself so. Come and sit upon my knee." The Lark looked up in confusion, as Maman beckoned to her. "Come, my princess, my dear girl." She patted her knee, and after a moment's hesitation, the Lark set down her rag and crossed the room, sat on Maman's knee.

Shocked, Éponine glanced over at her sister again, to find that Azelma's mouth was open in a gape. They watched the events unfold below them with rapt attention.

The Lark was sitting gingerly and stiffly on Maman's knee, her back rigid. Maman was still speaking and running her fingers through the Lark's dirty and tangled blonde hair. "Oh, _monsieur_, I should think I could never part with the child."

The man in the yellow coat seemed sceptical, but Papa put in, "We'd be asking for a very high price, you see. Shall we say … "

"A thousand Francs," the strange man proposed. "A reasonable price for a child, wouldn't you say?"

Éponine's own mouth had now fallen open too, her confusion multiplied. She hadn't the faintest idea as to what was going on, knew only that whatever _was_ going on, the circumstances were hardly normal. It seemed that Maman and Papa were _selling_ the Lark, but how would that make sense? What did the strange man want with the Lark? She vaguely recalled the Lark's mother, who sent money and nothing else. But she had always wondered if the Lark's mother would ever come back. And a thousand Francs! Such a princely sum! She'd never heard of anyone who had a thousand Francs to give away so freely.

Azelma, unfortunately, seemed to have forgotten the basic principles of spying, for she now asked quite loudly: "'Ponine, I don't understand. Whatever is going on?"

From downstairs, four heads looked up to see the two little Thénardier girls crouched there. Éponine, knowing full well she'd been caught, stood up straight, and tugged her sister to her feet along with her. She leaned over the banister as Maman delivered a sudden, "Éponine! Azelma! You two girls might do well to get yourselves straight to bed this instant, and I want your oil-lamp out."

Azelma hesitated as Éponine protested, not willing to go to bed just yet. "But Ma_man_, we don't understand. Whatever's – "

Maman's tone was so stern, and Éponine could never recall hearing her like this before. "I told you to get yourselves to bed, now go on, be good girls, and do as I tell you. And _what_ have I told you both about asking questions?" This time, Éponine obeyed her instantly, and Azelma followed. The Thénardier sisters shut their bedroom door, crawled into bed, and put out their oil-lamp, but they didn't go to sleep straight away, too full of curiosity and questions to do so. Christmas had certainly been forgotten.

They eventually heard the sound of the front door opening and closing, and as their bedroom window faced the road, they leapt from their cots and scrambled to see, unsure of what they might witness but eager to find out.

To their shock, it was the man in the yellow coat, and he had the Lark with him. She was wearing a shawl Éponine had never seen before, and she held the stranger's hand. The pair of them began to walk down the road to the village square, and the stranger scooped the Lark up and sat her on his broad shoulders. Azelma pushed closer. Éponine pushed back. The girls continued to watch as a hansom cab suddenly railed past, and the stranger hailed it down. He lowered the Lark from his shoulders and sat her on a seat before climbing in himself and shutting the door. Éponine and Azelma watched as the carriage drove off, into the darkness and the night.

And the Lark was gone.


	7. Nothing Ever Changes

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**Always Get Our Share**

Another short one — sorry! Hoping for one of respectable length next time.

oOo

* * *

Chapter Seven: Nothing Ever Changes

* * *

**December 1823**

As far back as Éponine could remember, the Lark had been staying at their inn and working there. So it made sense that she was confused, at first, when she woke the next Christmas morning and could not hear the Lark moving about downstairs attending to her early chores — sweeping and the like. But there was nothing, and the only sound emitting from the downstairs was silence. Éponine briefly wondered if it was so very early that even the Lark was not up yet, but the light coming in through her window quickly omitted this theory. Though it was wintertime, the sun was high and proud in the sky, and it in fact seemed to be near noon. For a while, with the silence of the room filled only by Azelma's sleeping breaths, Éponine lay there and watched the dust particles as they floated in the air, reflecting on the matter. But before terribly long, child that she was, a much more important realisation came to mind, and it gave her cause to leap from her cot and hurry across the room, shaking her sister awake violently.

"'Zelma! 'Zelma, oh, _do_ wake up! It's Christmas morning! Come now, get out of bed, 'Zelma! It's Christmas, don't you remember?" Éponine was shaking her sister so hard, the bed frame shook slightly. Azelma, meanwhile, moaned into her pillow and rolled over so that only the frizz of her auburn hair was visible, hiding her face. It was clear she'd not registered anything beyond the fact that she'd been woken in the morning against her will, and Azelma and mornings were not especially close friends. Éponine had to shake her sister once again before Azelma so much as lifted her head.

"Hmm," Azelma murmured. "I was sleeping."

"But it's Christmas!" Éponine exclaimed. "Christmas morning, you ninny, don't you remember? Come, let's see if we've been left a coin in our shoes and some little presents by the fireplace." She tugged at Azelma's arm, who, now realising, scrambled from bed, suddenly quite awake. The sisters tore from the room and raced down the stairs to the parlour, half tripping over the hems of their nightgowns. All thoughts of the Lark had been forgotten for the moment, for it was _Christmas_, after all, and why would either one think of the servant girl with the situation at hand?

Reaching the eating room, they found it to be cleared of the travellers, who had all gone away and checked out of their rooms by now. But it was not empty, for Maman was seated at one of the tables with a wine glass in hand, and Papa was sitting opposite her, reading the newspaper and drinking from a wine glass himself. A pipe hung from the corner of his mouth and filled the room with the slight haze of smoke. Which was awfully strange, for Éponine had never seen him with a pipe before. She was sure he'd never even owned one. But sometimes after the travellers had continued on their way, Papa and Maman would come up with new items seemingly out of nowhere. Last week, for instance, they'd had a new addition to decorate the parlour: an attractive vase whose only flaw was that it was just slightly chipped in one corner, and which now sat on top of one of the tables. Between Maman and Papa was a stack of coins, presumably from the guests, and several Franc notes spread out. Éponine barely paid them any mind besides a cheerful "Good morning!" as she and Azelma raced past the table, out of the eating room, and into the parlour.

The girls dropped to their knees by the fireplace, where they first checked the shoes that they'd left there and were thrilled to find a gleaming twenty-_sous_ piece each. It was a bit more money than they were usually left by Père Noël at Christmas, which meant they must both have been especially good this year. The coins they put aside for their own spending when the next school term began a week from now. But there was also a little present for each of them, they observed, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a pretty ribbon, their names written on the paper in pen. Éponine and Azelma hurried to unwrap the presents, tearing the paper and putting the ribbons aside. Éponine had received a new India-rubber ball, and Azelma another skip-rope. Both girls instantly took to testing their new gifts, and were delighted with them. Only now did they dash back to the eating room to show Maman and Papa what fine treasures Père Noël had left them this year.

"How lovely," Maman replied. "Now, why don't my little darlings run along and get dressed — we shall go for a walk to the square and perhaps I'll buy you both a treat before the men take down the Christmas stalls? Wouldn't you both rather like that? And mind that you dress warmly, too: it's damn chilly out, I noticed when I went out to beat the rugs. And you know, I should think I need a rest. My back is sore from the effort of it!" She leaned back in her chair, and sighed.

Éponine and Azelma didn't at all question the fact that Maman had just cursed, for she swore all the time and they were accustomed to it. Éponine herself had sworn a few times without thinking about it (even at school, which would earn her a rap of the knuckles), and she'd cursed in worse ways that just _damn_. Azelma, meanwhile, was completely mortified of uttering a single one of these unforgivable words, and yet she said nothing when her mother, father, and sister did so. She was strange like that.

But what did give Azelma cause to frown was the fact that Maman had just said she'd been out beating the rugs, and it was evident that she'd forgotten about the Lark with the excitement of Christmas morning. "But, Maman," she inquired, "what of the Lark? Isn't it _her_ job to beat the rugs?" Indeed, she must have forgotten last night's events quite entirely, but just as Azelma asked her question, Éponine remembered the Man in the Yellow Coat and how he'd taken the Lark away.

Just as Éponine was reminded, Maman answered simply: "The Lark's gone away now, my princess, and I expect she shan't be coming back. We'll just have to make do without her — of course, that filthy brat was so very useless that I expect it'll hardly make a difference. And we got good money for that awful creature. We shall live well for the next little while." Azelma's eyes got big as she remembered, suddenly, finally, what she and her sister had witnessed, and Maman gave a nod. "Oh, yes, we were paid good money. Now, go along and get dressed, the pair of you."

Papa looked up from his newspaper and snorted. "Good money? Are you mad, woman? Fifteen hundred Francs hardly compensates for the burden that girl brought us. What a fool I was for letting her go for such a sum. That man was all too easy to milk; we could have got a good deal more. If he shows his face here again … " Again Papa snorted and he took a puff from his pipe, a swig of wine, then disappeared behind his paper once more.

With a flourish of her hand, which bore a new paste ring, Maman waved her daughters up the stairs. "Don't mind your father, dears," she sighed, and Éponine and Azelma obeyed, hurrying up the stairs.

At the door to their parent's bedroom, they stopped and poked their head in the door. The Baby was sleeping still, for he slept quite a lot, even for a boy of three. Éponine wondered why he'd not gotten any presents from Père Noël. Surely he'd been good? She watched her brother a moment with the sort of unsure sadness that only an eight-year-old is capable of, then she darted into her own chambers, fetched one of her wooden animals (this one a lion) and returned, placing the small toy next to him so he would find it when he woke up. Azelma looked at Éponine in surprise, and then the girls stepped out again, shutting the door behind them.

In their own chambers now, they selected their favourite dresses from the armoire. Éponine's new favourite dress she'd received for her most recent birthday: a pink thing with a full, frilly skirt, a lace frock and little white dots all over. She sat on her little stool and combed her hair, for she brushed and styled her own hair now, being eight. She put on her best blue bonnet as well, and securely tied the ribbons under her chin. Then she helped Azelma do up the buttons of her own dress and tied the ribbons of her bonnet as well, not bothering even to try combing Azelma's mess of locks, for she knew it would be for naught. The girls stepped into their boots and put on their cloaks, followed by gloves, then skipped downstairs together, where Maman had already put on her own coat and was waiting for them by the door. Papa was still seated at the table, his newspaper discarded but was now sorting through his bills. The pipe still dangled from the corner of his mouth.

"Shan't Papa be coming?" Éponine questioned, because surely he should accompany them on their outing. It was Christmas, after all! She had joined her mother at the door, but now glanced over her shoulder to see Papa.

"No, he shan't," Maman said curtly, and ushered them outside.

Overnight it had snowed, although the ground had already been covered in the stuff. White and cold and going on forever, footprints leaving their mark in it and heading off into the unknown. The grey sky was like old wood lined in clouds, but its panelling weary enough that it let the sun break through in rays that made that white snow sparkle. Like diamonds, Éponine thought. There was no wind; the air was peaceful. The Thénardiers — mother and her two darling daughters — set out to the main square, Éponine and Azelma delighting in every _crunch_ their boots made in the snow with every step they took. They were soon racing ahead, making snowballs and tossing them at each other, so that within instants their backs were covered in sprays of white, and the fabric of their gloves were soaking wet. But they were just children, and they hardly cared. They had no reason to.

The Christmas stalls were still decorated festively, however, and had not yet been taken down. In fact, the square was still dotted in shoppers who were purchasing last-minute items, or the leftovers, while they were still around. Everyone in Montfermeil knew that the best of everything was sold at Christmas, after all, and it would all be gone soon. Éponine and Azelma ran to the toy stall at once, for another glimpse of that lovely doll, but were surprised to find that she was gone. That pretty, expensive doll! They wondered who might have bought her. Probably one of those prissy girls, like Adèle, Éponine huffed. The Thénardier girls studied the remaining dolls, but none were as impressive as the one that had been there before. But they were suddenly pulled over by Maman, who'd caught up with them.

"Come, my children. I'll buy you both special treats, just this once." Taking them by the shoulders, she steered them over to the candy maker's stall. At once, the sisters studied the pastries, knowing better than to ask for chocolate. Azelma had picked out a honey cake and Éponine took fancy to a little cherry tart. Before she could ask for it, however, Maman said with great casualness: "What of the _chocolat petit fours_? Would you each like one of those?" She pulled her money-pouch from her pocket and produced a gold Louis coin.

Éponine let her mouth fall open, and she knew that Azelma was gaping as well. A chocolate, after all! Chocolates were terribly expensive and they'd never been able to afford them, Maman said. But now here she was, being offered one! The eight-year-old nodded with wide eyes. "Yes." Azelma nodded, too, so Maman paid for the little truffles and the candy maker wrapped them up in fancy wax paper and handed them to each girl across his little wooden counter. Éponine took hers gingerly, terrified of dropping it, of crushing it between her fingers and ruining it or of melting it if she held it too long. She waited with the tiny chocolate in her hands as Maman took her change and led her daughters to a bench, where they sat down and ate their treats.

The chocolate was unlike anything either girl had ever tasted before. Sharp and bitter, but sugary sweet too. And soft. Delicate. For some reason Éponine had expected the chocolate to be crunchy and hard, but her teeth went through it easily and she was surprised by it. Her first bite was tiny and she took a long time to enjoy the feel of it playing on her tongue, but she went on to wolf it down; she liked it so very much.

When she had finished it, Éponine looked up with a little frown. "Why _have_ you bought chocolates, Maman? You've told us before, all the time, how expensive they were."

Maman waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Hmm. I told you, we've come into money and we might as well allow ourselves some little indulgences once in a while. Now come along, let's return home. I've some laundry to tend to."

oOo

It was surprising to Éponine just what little difference the Lark's absence seemed to have made. When they returned to the inn a bit later that afternoon, she had been worried she and Azelma would be expected to tend to a few chores, but Maman waved them off to go play, just like always. The eight-year-old and her sister dashed upstairs to fetch their dolls and, after briefly checking in on their brother again, returned to the parlour, where Maman was lighting a fire in the hearth, and they were soon sitting by it and enjoying its warmth as they played happily. They rocked their dolls and tied bonnets under their chins and were positively the very best mothers to their little babies.

They did not reflect on the Lark's disappearance until that night, when they were lying in bed, the moon silver and swollen in the ink-black sky. The oil-lamp put out and the entire inn quiet save for the whispers of a late-night conversation between the two sisters. It was Azelma who started it, as was her wont whenever she had a question in the wee hours.

"'Ponine?" Her voice cut through the darkness.

Éponine rolled over to face her. "Yes?"

"Whatever shall happen, truly, now the Lark's gone away? And who was that Yellow Man? Was he her Papa? Whatever shall happen to _her_?"

"I don't know. I don't think he was her Papa: I don't think she had one at all. But I don't know. You ought to ask Maman."

"Maman never answers my questions."

"She doesn't mine, either. Anyhow, I just don't know."

"But you know everything."

"Not everything. Only most things."

They both giggled, and Éponine smiled in the blackness. Briefly, she'd wondered the same things as Azelma, but she was certain that nothing would truly change, now. She allowed the silence to ensue again, but predictably, Azelma soon had yet another question.

"And us? What shall happen to _us_?"

It was the only question Éponine was sure of the answer to, the only question she wasn't guessing at. "Nothing, 'Zelma. Everything will be exactly as it always has been."


	8. Of Survival and Spoils

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**Always Get Our Share**

oOo

* * *

Chapter Eight: Of Survival and Spoils

* * *

**February 1824**

The day was a lazy one in the latter half of winter, when the snow had lost its white wonder and had gone grey and ugly and the chill became a wet one. Not even the heat and crackle of the fireplace could fully chase the cold away, which had seemingly settled itself into the very woodwork of the inn. Yes, the end of the winter was always the worst of it, and Éponine hated walking to school in such weather, but all the same, she was still free to play about inside when she _wasn't_ at school, and she could try her best to ignore it.

It had been a full month and a half since the Lark had left, but nothing much had yet changed for Éponine and Azelma. They were now expected to make their own beds, true, but that was quite all. Maman did all the cleaning, and she often complained of having back sores from her work, but she was still up to her usual manner of business by evening when the night's customers had shown up and were eating. She still seemed to enjoy chatting with them and giving them extra bottles of wine or beer. Papa, meanwhile, had since raised all the prices on the rooms, meals and drinks, for he claimed that as the Lark's mother no longer sent money, they were running short. The Yellow Man's fifteen hundred Francs had been spent on some long overdue property tax, and a little indulgence for the children here and there, courtesy of Maman. Many of the local regulars had complained over this, Éponine was aware, and a good deal had since stopped coming. But Montfermeil was still a common point for travellers to pass through, the little village being on the road from Paris to a great many large towns, including Chelles and Meaux, so they did quite well in terms of business.

Éponine and Azelma still enjoyed the attention of the nightly travellers, who called the Thénardier girls "little darlings" and "lovely angels." For, at eight and seven, respectively, Éponine and Azelma had truly grown into blossoming little beauties, with their fresh olive complexions, big brown doe's eyes, and gleaming locks of hair, despite Azelma's curls being hopelessly stubborn. They might not have come from noble families, but they were still well brought-up _mademoiselles_: polite, charming, sweet, and innocent. The epitome of good breeding actually, many of the travellers said, especially considering they were innkeeper's children.

Nobody (or at least, no one who wasn't a local), knew about the third innkeeper's child kept upstairs and out of sight. Indeed, the Baby continued to go unnamed, and would probably never be named unless he chose one for himself when he got a bit older. To his sisters, he remained "the Baby", though they sometimes addressed him as _petit_, and to his parents he would continue on as "the brat." Being three meant that he often walked about the parlour by himself, playing with his toys, and his cot had been moved to Éponine and Azelma's room. He did a good deal less bawling than he used to as an infant, something that all the Thénardiers were grateful for. He was rather quiet, truth be told, and amused himself by playing with the wooden animals belonging to his sisters. He was not an unattractive toddler, with his blond hair and bright blue eyes, so unlike his sisters. And yet no one knew he existed. Of the few things Éponine had begun to think a little strange about her family, this was one of them. She never spoke of her brother at school, and sometimes wondered what would happen when he himself came of the schooling age. That wasn't terribly far off, just a few years from now. Once Éponine had asked Maman about this, but her mother, who'd been washing the day's dirty dishes at the time, merely waved a hand in dismissal. "Can't you see I'm terribly busy at present, Éponine? Run along and don't bother me with your silly inquiries; I hardly care."

Now, the days wore on and Éponine endured them. She endured the numbers she was required to practise and she endured the dull writing she was forced to produce, which frustrated her because she knew to read and write far better than her schoolmates: she was cleverer than them, she was aware, and felt as though the schoolteacher wasn't acknowledging it. Her penmanship was messy, but she didn't see why it was such an issue; did it really matter that all of her lower-case _a_'s looked like little_ q'_s? It was silly! At least she was better than Azelma, who hardly knew her letters and numbers at all and was constantly penalised for it. Éponine wanted to help her sister, but Azelma could never seem to understand the simplest things, said they didn't "at all fit together" and eventually, Éponine deemed it as tiresome and left her sister to her own devices.

But midway through February's bitter cold embrace, everything started changing at a noticeable rate with alarming speed, and heavens above did Éponine Thénardier notice.

oOo

Each month, Éponine and Azelma Thénardier received some silly little gift. It was never anything much, but Maman might purchase them a new bonnet or pair of stockings. In January of that year, Éponine had gotten a new chalk-box for school, and Azelma had been given a fresh, crisp white pinafore. When February came, the sisters had waited for their monthly indulgence but had been given nothing. They'd been waiting a while now, and it was the first of March. No new treats had been given for the month. What was this, Éponine thought to herself. Why no gift? That day, after a supper of gruel and dry toast with cheese, a glass of milk, she'd trotted into the kitchen to find Maman and had asked about this with all the threatening interrogation skills of an eight-year-old.

"My girl," Maman answered sternly. "Are you so spoiled now you demand some silly present each month? Don't you understand we are running short on money? We haven't enough to spoil you and your sister this month. Perhaps I'll get you a new pair of gloves or something of that type a little into the month, all right? Ye gods! What brat, pray, have I raised? Now, be a good girl and practise your letters, and leave me in peace."

Here, a bewildered and stung Éponine had gone to find Papa instead, who was seated at the bar counter nursing a bottle that smelled differently than beer or wine, and the child wondered what the beverage was. She asked Papa about her present only to receive a similar scolding: "Great heavens, child! I do at times wonder what on earth's the matter with you. We needn't buy you some ridiculous indulgence every month. Our pockets are emptying, and we're getting poorer. Go to bed and let me alone, and tomorrow I should think I'll have something important to teach you, and maybe some well-needed discipline too. Didn't you hear what I said, girl? Get yourself to bed unless you want a spanking!"

So that was what she did: she crawled off to bed and put out the oil-lamp, pressing her lips to the temple of the Baby, who was already asleep, and bidding a good night to Azelma, who protested loudly when the sudden darkness that overtook the room interrupted her as she played with her dolls. Éponine was eight years old, and she was confused. She didn't understand why Maman and Papa were behaving in such a way with her, and why she hadn't been given her monthly _cadeau_. She didn't know why the Lark had gone away or who the Yellow Man was that had taken her, and strangely, found herself yearning for their servant girl to come back, because everything started to change the day that the Lark had left. It was all her fault, Éponine reasoned, all the stupid Lark's fault. She pulled the blankets closer round her body and began to fall asleep wishing the Lark ill fortune in the future.

Another whispered late-night conversation broke through the folds of the darkness, and was started by Azelma, as was wont. The youngest Thénardier girl's voice reached Éponine suddenly, jerking her from her semi-conscious state. "'Ponine?"

Éponine cracked one eye open, wanting nothing more than to return to sleep. She propped herself up by one elbow and huffed loudly. "Whatever do you _want_, 'Zelma?" she griped. "I was sleeping, you know. Or nearly asleep, anyway. This had best be brief."

Outside, an owl cried into the emptiness of the night. Azelma hesitated before she answered. "What did Maman say of our presents? Will we ever get them?"

Éponine sat up a little straighter. "I don't know," she confessed. "Everything's changed, hasn't it? I do wonder if things shall ever be the same again. It doesn't seem so, does it?"

"Yes, but … Oh, why has everything changed?"

"I _don't know_. I don't know everything, 'Zelma. Do stop asking me things I can't possibly know the answer to. I don't at all know why everything's changed and I don't know if they will continue to. I just know that I like it no more than you do." Again, the owl hooted out, and Éponine's eyes flickered to the window, though of course it was so dark she couldn't see anything. The eight-year-old climbed from bed and drew the curtains before returning to her cot, though not without flashing her younger sister a glare that couldn't be seen for the blackness. "Now hush, and get yourself to sleep."

"Alright," was the amiable retort as Azelma lay back down and rolled over, facing away.

Éponine flopped back onto the mattress and closed her eyes, wrapping the blankets around her again and curling up in the cocoon of their warmth. Her mind continued to wander to thoughts of the Lark and presents that hadn't been received, and she stayed awake longer than she might have liked.

Eventually though, she did fall asleep, and it was to the sound of the owl, calling out into a night that never answered.

oOo

The Thénardier sisters received their little presents midway through March, but the gifts were simpler than what the girls were accustomed to. For Azelma, a new white bonnet for her doll that looked like it had cost no more than a _sou_ or two, and for Éponine, a new ribbon for her dark hair. Both were plain gifts, simple pretty things given as distractions. Azelma, being quiet as she was, did not complain, and ran off to put the new little bonnet on Minou's head.

Éponine, meanwhile, held out the vanilla coloured ribbon at arm's length, as she might a wet item of clothing and frowned. Instantly she felt the swat of Maman's hand over her head. "Don't scowl like that, girl, it's unattractive. Are you not happy with your little gift?"

"Well," Éponine said slowly, "it _is_ only a silly little hair ribbon. And not even a satin one at that!"

"Merciful heavens, you _are_ a spoiled thing," Maman clucked, and Éponine was suddenly aware as to just how close Maman was to the wooden spoons. "I don't know what kind of girl I raised. Now, listen to me. I can't have you and your sister traipsing about playing and not helping about the inn — and no, making your bed each morning isn't _helping_. You should consider yourself lucky I don't make you fetch water and scrub the counter-tops down as that brat the Lark once did. _That_, my little _mademoiselle_, I do myself, thank you kindly. But it's high time you stopped slacking and started to help about. Run back upstairs and fetch your sister. I've something to teach the both of you. Run along, now." Another swat to the bottom, and Éponine was gathering up her skirts and dashing up the stairs to find Azelma.

Her sister, who was playing on the floor of their bedroom with Minou and her wooden animals with the Baby, was not at all happy to be interrupted in her play; she pouted ferociously as Éponine took her by the hand and practically had to drag her from the room.

"Me?" the Baby asked from his spot on the floor. He was holding a little wooden cat between his pudgy three-year-old fingers.

"No, no, not you, _petit_," Éponine crooned to him. "Just me and 'Zelma." She left him to his own devices, and he didn't seem to mind being left to go on playing with the wooden animals. Éponine shut the door on her way out of the room, a grouchy Azelma in tow. She went back down the stairs to meet Maman in the parlour. She was holding a brown overcoat that didn't belong to Papa and her fists were full of coins. They jingled against each other, and against the toy rings that adorned her fingers.

"I don't want to go to the woods," Azelma announced suddenly. "They frighten me."

"No one has asked you to go to the woods, you ninny," Éponine replied, then glanced at Maman to be sure. The reply made her squirm.

"Not yet." Maman cleared her throat. "You know that we make a fair profit here, don't you, girls?"

"Yes," Azelma answered at once. "We charge high prices but for fine service and good wine. That is what Papa says all the time." She looked terribly pleased with herself, standing up a little straighter and holding up her chin.

"There are, at times, more efficient ways of making money in our world," Maman replied dismissively. "Certainly innkeepers don't always make do, you know we have little money, especially now. You both shall have to be taught other ways of surviving, but that I believe we'll leave to your Papa. He's gone out for the moment but will be back in time." She then quit the room and went off to brew the stew that she'd serve the travellers that night, and Éponine and Azelma, without knowing what else to do, put on their cloaks and went outside to wait for Papa on the front stoop. The outside world was like a dead watercolour painting, half-melted grey and muddy snow, slivers of leafless trees rearing their heads from the frozen earth.

They waited a full half hour, when Papa came down the path. Éponine and Azelma leapt to their feet and ran to him, shrieking in glee. He stopped in his tracks, taking them both at arm's length without embracing them. For a moment he seemed confused, but then his eyes brightened and he gave a dry chuckle. "Ah, yes, your Maman mentioned to me. I am going to teach you the art of properly keeping an inn, _mes filles_. You shall see, it is not always easy, but it is surely a form of art. Survival is an art."

He ushered them inside, where the girls shed their cloaks and he his overcoat. Papa sat them down at the table and turned out his pockets, removing several handfuls of coins and depositing them on the surface in front of him. Éponine crossed her legs, her arms and regarded the coins with scepticism. "I already know how to count them," she said. "The schoolteacher taught us all the values of the coins and how to count them."

Papa looked at her sternly. "Don't go about being stupid, now. I'm not going to teach you to _count_ them. Surely even a baby knows that. Do you know where a man keeps his money?"

"In his wallet, or in his pocket," Azelma piped up.

"Precisely. And how might we obtain the money from him?"

Azelma considered this for a while. "By charging him in his check," she said at last, decisively, firmly, knowingly, but pulled back when she saw the look of frustration that flashed in Papa's eyes. Éponine recoiled slightly, too, feeling startled: she had no clue why Papa seemed so very cross and impatient now, because she saw no other way to obtain money from a man other than like that.

"I don't understand, Papa," Éponine frowned, and he shook his head at her.

"How ignorant you both are! Is it necessary for me to take you by the hand and explain it all to you step-by-step? I don't believe it … " He drummed his fingers on the table, and Éponine's eyes darted to them, not wanting to meet his gaze. At last, he looked up and announced, "By God. _Pickpocketing_, alright? Must I explain that, too?"

Next to her, Azelma gasped. "Why, that's stealing!" Éponine was not so surprised, she'd seen Maman pick the pockets of travellers before, but she hadn't known they did that with money, too. She'd assumed it was just little knickknacks that Maman took, but incidentally that included money. She wondered if taking money was "just getting by" and "taking what they needed", as Maman had said. It _seemed_ wrong, but her parents were no criminals. They wouldn't steal. Besides, she reasoned, if it was criminal then the police would surely have come to arrest Maman and Papa by now, and they had never done so. While she couldn't shake the feeling that taking the money of the travellers wasn't right, it was surely just part of running the inn.

"It's not stealing, 'Zelma," Éponine spoke up reassuringly. "Maman said so."

Azelma relaxed visibly. "Oh," she breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, that's alright, then." Then she was excited all over again, leaning forwards. "So, shall you teach us to pick pockets, then, Papa?"

"Exactly that," Papa pronounced fondly. "It's quite simple, really. Sometimes we might slip an item or two from pockets or bags, some piece of nonsense one hardly needs — pointless pocket-watches or spectacles even when the man probably has perfectly fine eyesight, little china ornaments ... the list goes on! — and relieve them of it. Other times we take money, just a _sou_ or two. You know we haven't got much money in this family, especially now we're not getting money from that mother of the Lark's — wretched woman! So this is how we shall get by from now on."

Éponine nodded, listening closely. She'd heard Maman and Papa say this sort of thing a million times over, but now she found that she better understood it. And she wondered if perhaps, on a future date, she might get herself a lovely little toy to replace the dullness of her new hair ribbon. Children rarely passed by the inn, but on occasion they did, and they often had such fine playthings.

It was all beginning to make more sense to her now, and she didn't even think it so strange any longer.


	9. The Turn of the Earth

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**Always Get Our Share**

Author's Note: A rare little note where I say something not having to do with updates or chapter length. Just throwing this out there. You know what saddens me? The fact that the term bric-à-brac didn't originate until the late 19th century, meaning it would be inaccurate to use it in this story. A right shame that is, because it's the perfect word to describe the trinkets the Thénardiers are picking up. Oh well.  
Oh, and I'd just like to take a moment to thank all the lovely people who've reviewed. Each and every one of your words always means a lot! And please remember constructive criticism and/or feedback is also appreciated. Anyway, without further ado … in the words of _Doctor Who_'s Tenth Doctor … _allons-y!_

Word Count (a suggestion from **GabriellaPotterTyler **via PM): 3,590

oOo

* * *

Chapter Nine: The Turn of the Earth

* * *

**August 1824**

The inn had been slowly losing customers since Christmastime, until there were only a small handful in June, and that was including the locals who came round for an evening of drinking and rowdiness and forgetting. So it was a bit of a surprise to the Thénardier family when they received a sudden explosion of customers come July, and business was flourishing and beautiful. The Sergeant at Waterloo had become quite the attraction. This was because the only other inn of Montfermeil was on the other side of the little village, and its owner had only just recently gone to be with God, as the locals put it — a turn of phrase most curious to Éponine. The gentleman's death naturally resulted in his establishment closing down. That meant there was now only one place to get drunk with good wine in Montfermeil, and there was only one place for travellers to stop by when they passed through.

Éponine had hoped that Papa might have her and Azelma stop pickpocketing, for, while she understood why they performed such acts, she always got so very nervous whenever she was required to slip her fingers into someone's coat pocket or purse. At first it had been so exciting, and she'd felt so grown-up, but pickpocketing had quickly lost its feel and had morphed into something to fret over, for she was so afraid of getting caught. Once she very nearly had been, and she'd had to drop the fob watch she'd been removing from a Parisian man's pocket and skip across the room, pretending to merely have been playing. She was aware, in that selfish way all children regard themselves, that she was quite good at what she was required to do, but it still made her break out in sweats at times. And poor, dear Azelma, who was so much more vulnerable and sensitive, sometimes got so nervous she was rather on the verge of tears.

She'd even argued with Papa over the matter once or twice. "Papa, I cannot tonight, I must practise my letters." That had been a lie, her letters were far better than those of her classmates. But Éponine was a good liar. Lying was not a problem. Lying was easy. Either way, Papa had remained utterly unmalleable.

"Those silly subjects of yours are a true waste, my girl," he'd scoffed. "At the end of the day, they won't help you to put food on our table or coins in our pockets. And don't be so belligerent, it's most unattractive."

So Éponine coped. She picked pockets under Maman and Papa's command, and she was good at it. She was bright, and she was the daughter of two experts. She knew how to go about doing what she was told to. That didn't make her any less nervous, but Maman said that her nerves would go away if she got used to it. She and Azelma looked sweet and they went through the customer's bags, carefully picking the very best little treasures: a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, a monocle, a pocket watch, some coins, an ivory comb, a ring. They would gather the glittering items in their aprons and run into the kitchen, hurrying and depositing their collections on the counter-top. They might only take a handful of goods or two a day, so as not to arouse suspicion.

It wasn't all bad though, Éponine sometimes tried to tell herself.

Even though it was.

But indeed, there were still good things. Like the time she found a little glass cat in the purse of a woman travelling with her husband and teenage son, which Maman let her keep in her bedroom and now sat proudly on her windowsill where it caught the summer sunlight. Or the days when she and Azelma collected enough trinkets that Papa would be pleased and he wouldn't shout. He shouted and got cross quite a lot these days. He got cross with everyone: Éponine, Azelma, the Baby, even Maman. But mostly Azelma.

That had been July. Then came August.

With the dry heat of August, when the grass turned crisp and parched and died to a dead golden green, there were always fewer travellers, for mostly everyone stayed in their homes with the windows open. And August of 1824 was especially unpleasant. It seemed to Éponine that the weather could never make up its mind: either it was far too cold or far too hot with very little comfortable middle ground. In August, the customers came so very rarely, and Éponine was not motivated to go run about and play. Instead the girl spent her days lying on the ground on the road and marvelling at the way she could quite literally see the waves of heat in the air.

When the stickiness of August was finally starting to draw to its end and Éponine had celebrated her ninth birthday, she made a sudden observation that gave her cause to go running to Maman and report the news. In the past few months, she'd learned not to bother her mother unless something was truly serious. Maman was so very fretful and easy to anger these days; she often turned on Éponine and shouted for the littlest things, calling her a "spoiled brat" and a "troublesome, thoughtless girl." But Éponine didn't think this was a matter of her being spoiled. This was a matter worth stressing over, or at least, it was in the picturesque nine-year-old's world she'd painted for herself.

She found Maman outside, hanging the washing to dry. When Éponine came running out of the door, her mother released a huff of impatience. "What is it? Can't you tell that I'm busy, girl?" She hung up the chemise she was holding on the clothesline and wiped her large, wet hands on her front apron. Those hands settled themselves on her hips and remained there.

Nervous, Éponine took a small step back. "Maman … I just … well, I was dressing myself, and I realised … I've outgrown one of my fancy dresses. It fits too small on me, now." She shuffled her feet. "And … well, as you see, I'm wearing it now," — she indicated the blue dress she currently wore — "and it's a bit short." When she still received no answer, she pointed again and added in a loud whisper, "_It reveals my ankles_." She took another step back and waited.

She got her response. It was an indignant snort. Meaty hands left hips and picked up the next piece of clothing in the basket: a nightdress of Azelma's. She swatted Éponine with it before starting to hang it up. Only then did she say, without so much as looking over her shoulder when she addressed her daughter, "Well, whatever do you expect _me_ to do about it, girl? Can't you tell we are running short on money these days? I should think your father and I have told you enough times, but that skull of yours must be quite thick if our words haven't reached your little brain yet." A scoff as she finished hanging the nightdress. She reached for another piece of clothing. This time, a stocking. It looked lonely.

Éponine shuffled her feet again, suddenly feeling very naked, exposed, and scandalised. "But, Maman," she protested, "my _ankles_!"

Maman spun on her, eyes flashing. "Why! Wear stockings to cover them up, then!"

It was enough to send Éponine turning on her heel and dashing back inside, up the stairs and into her bedroom as quickly as her legs with their bare ankles would carry her. She startled the Baby, who was sprawled on the floor in his sleep-clothes, drawing on Azelma's slate with some chalk. His bright blue toddler's eyes were inquisitive. Éponine waved a hand in dismissal, and he returned to his babyish drawings without uttering a word.

Éponine curled up on her bed, resting against the headboard. She didn't cry, merely sat quietly in her too-short dress and wondered at how everything had gone so utterly rotten. Because everything was changing and someone had soiled the perfection she'd naïvely and childishly thought her life was. The worst of it was that things would continue going downhill, and Éponine Thénardier didn't even know it yet.

oOo

On the very last day of August, that month of dead summer's heat finally drawing to a close, Éponine woke and made her bed. She tucked the bedclothes around her mattress tidily and placed the doll she slept with on the pillow before going to help Azelma with her own bed. Her sister always seemed to struggle with the sheets and blankets, insisted that some things were just _difficult_ for her, though she didn't know why.

Each day, Éponine asked Azelma to try and do it herself. "You cannot rely on me to do everything. It's high time you learned for yourself, 'Zelma." But her younger sister would always shake her head and press her lips together, tearful, and Éponine would sigh and help anyhow.

Today was no different. She helped Azelma with the bedclothes, and then she punched the pillow into shape before laying a doll on top. Then, she'd grab hold of the wooden comb and drag it vainly once or twice through her sister's mass of curls, before tending to her own hair. This routine followed that of any other day since the Lark had left, too.

The Baby was still sleeping, so Éponine left him there to rest. He was old enough now that he no longer needed bars on the sides of his crib, but Maman said they hadn't the money to purchase a new cot, and certainly not enough money to spend on something that was so petty to begin with.

It was too hot today to wear petticoats and undergarments, so the sisters went downstairs in just their nightgowns: it wasn't as if there were customers to see them and be shocked. The only other piece of clothing they bothered with were stockings, for their ankles. At nine, Éponine had already started to outgrow the chaste indecency of childhood, wanting to be a proper grown-up lady. It was the sort of thing her classmates worried about, after all.

The sisters padded down to the empty eating room, where they had a little milk and bread without butter or marmalade. Then they headed for the upstairs parlour to play, because there were no customers to deal with and hence nothing else to do. With the Baby still asleep they sat on the settee and played games with their dolls, with their wooden animals, and the little glass cat. When their brother awoke, they all bounced the India-rubber ball around together, and no one shouted at them for playing outdoor games inside.

But that night, when Éponine and Azelma had finally changed into their dresses and bonnets, the inn received a customer. This was not a local man coming by for a round of drinks, nor was it some local women come for gossip. It was a traveller, a proper traveller, complete with a large and bulky valise. His waistcoat and silken cravat suggested wealth, and the glinting fob watch he had with him only proved it further. Éponine, who at this point was having a supper of soup at the lined tables, released a huff of air and nervousness. Wealthy customers always meant pickpocketing. Actually, any customers were bound to mean pickpocketing, but wealthy ones especially.

The man set down his valise and regarded the two children. He smiled from under his whiskers, and he looked kind. "Hello there. I am seeking a hot meal and a room for the night, if you have either to offer." His voice was kind too. "Are you the innkeepers' children? I was told that the keepers of this inn have two lovely children."

That surprised Éponine: Maman and Papa told her that all the rich were the very worst sort of people who only wanted even more money than they already had and wished all the poor in the country to suffer and starve. Once in a while, the inn might receive some wealthy customers, and Éponine had noticed that her parents' words were true: those well-to-do people were all snobbish and had their heads in the clouds, had themselves convinced they were the gods of their own worlds, and that this Earth revolved around them. Many of them had spoken down both to Éponine and Azelma. The richer girls at school were all snobbish too, and spent all their time boasting about their wealth and spoils and lovely toys. The sort that bought chocolate truffles from the village sweets shop every day without having to worry about the cost. All the rich, Éponine understood, were the same. The Yellow Coat Man, she realised suddenly, had been a member of the elite too. He must have been, else he wouldn't have given all that money for the Lark. It was his fault, the Lark's and his, that her life had become so unhappy of late. But this seemingly kind man was rich, and it confused Éponine.

For Éponine, it took a moment to find her voice as she stood. Her chair scraped against the floor in a loud cacophony of wood on wood. "I … well, yes, _monsieur_." She raised her chin. "This is the Sergeant at Waterloo. It is the finest inn of the village, _monsieur_." That was the sort of thing she was supposed to say if any travellers came by if Maman and Papa weren't there. She offered a little smile, as she was meant to. "My mother is in the kitchen brewing soup, _monsieur_: shall I fetch her?"

The man blinked, and nodded. He pulled a chair out and sat down, dragging his valise close to him, and folded his hands on his lap. He removed his waistcoat. Éponine paused, studying him, then turned and ran into the kitchen. Azelma stood and followed her. They burst into the kitchen, where Maman was indeed brewing soup and nursing a bottle of wine, which lay on the counter next to her and from which she took the occasional swig. She looked up in irritation upon the entry of her daughters. "I am busy, you know," she began, but Éponine interrupted.

"There is a traveller who requests a room and some food," she announced.

"He's rich!" Azelma blurted. "A cravat _of silk_ and a fancy fob watch and everything." Éponine hit her. Maman didn't notice. Instead, their mother pointed the wooden spoon at them and spoke just loudly enough that she'd not be heard beyond the kitchen doors, but the threatening tone of her words was present as ever.

"I shall be there presently, I'll find your father. Meanwhile, if either of you had half a mind, you would do well to search his bag. I trust he has one?" When neither girl budged, she sighed. "Did you not hear me? Run along! One of you may distract him. Go!" She pointed her spoon and set it down next to her wine bottle, which she picked up and took another gulp from before going to find her husband, leaving the soup to cook over the wood stove. Éponine and Azelma did as she bid them, turning and going back to the eating room.

"Our mother says she shall be with you presently, _monsieur_," Éponine said as sweetly as she could. "May we take your valise to the upstairs parlour in the meanwhile?" The traveller nodded, and Éponine and Azelma each took one of its handles and lifted it. "It's certainly heavy," Éponine muttered as she and her sister lugged it towards the stairs.

When they reached the bottom of the steps, they had to pause a moment for a rest before continuing on up. It was a relief when they reached the parlour and they deposited the valise on a small table, hurriedly unfastening its sealing button to examine its contents. They were predictable but impressive: some well-tailored suits, a leather money-purse that jingled with the promise of coins inside, another fob watch, this one made of what appeared to be real silver, and other expensive-looking items. Towards the bottom, hidden under some of the suits, Azelma found a little box with a beautiful brooch inside. "Are those real garnets, 'Ponine?" she whispered, enthralled.

"I believe they are," Éponine marvelled. "Come, we must go back downstairs before he grows suspicious." She snapped the box shut and returned it to its place before trotting down the stairs, Azelma at her heels.

Maman had retired to the kitchen, but in those few minutes it seemed she'd presented the travelling man with a glass of beer and some of the soup, as well as a plate of rice. Éponine recognised it as the same rice she'd started eating and not finished for lunch, but she said nothing. She instead picked up her bowl of soup and walked over to the table, sitting opposite the man and smiled brightly. "Is all comfortable, _monsieur_?"

"Yes. Very," the man answered. "Thank you."

"What brings you to our family's secluded inn?" Éponine asked. "It's terribly out of the way of everything, I'm sure you're not a tourist. To where do you travel?"

A pause as the man sipped his wine. He wiped his whiskers. Éponine decided she liked his whiskers: they were funny. "To Paris. I was away visiting my sister (who lives in Annet-sur-Marne) and I am now returning home. And I had not, in fact, heard of this little inn: my sister told me of another one on the other side of this village, but the gentleman driving the hansom cab told me the place had closed down and took me here instead." He cleared his throat. "It's a fine establishment, I was told."

Éponine nodded. "It is." She wondered what she should ask next. She was a pearl fisher and he was a clam. She had to crack him open and discover as much as she could about him, as Papa would expect her to do. This made her nervous, but he'd be cross if she didn't do as she was expected. At last she settled on a tactic. "What do you do in Paris, _monsieur_? That is to say, what is your line of work?"

A bite of rice. He didn't seem to notice it was a discarded meal at all. "I am a teacher, a schoolteacher, at a school for boys. I work with the youngest ones. Have you a good school here in this village?"

Again, Éponine nodded. "Oh, the best." She lowered her voice. This was starting to feel less like an interrogation, she decided, and more like a friendly conversation. She liked this man. "But if I'm to be frank, _monsieur_, the numbers bore me."

He chortled. "Do they, now! Ah, like any child in their right mind, I should think: you must see how the boys I teach behave when the time of day comes to that of learning arithmetic! How old are you, then, child? And your sister, too? And … my goodness, I don't think we've at all properly introduced ourselves. I am Monsieur Richard Depaul. And yourself?"

"Éponine Thénardier, _monsieur_, and that there is my sister Azelma." She turned to Azelma, but her sister was vanishing upstairs, so Éponine continued. "I am nine and she is seven. Eight come September. It is a quiet life we have here, surely quiet in comparison to such a city as Paris, but a good one. We run the inn, though business has been quiet of late, and attend school, once term begins next week." Éponine slurped her soup, more loudly than she'd meant to, but Monsieur Depaul only chuckled.

"You're a nice little one, you are. Now, I am a teacher and you, a young pupil. You must tell me, what classes do you like to study, if not numbers?" He leaned forth in his chair. He seemed to be genuinely interested.

"I like reading, _monsieur_, and geography too. Well, geography, but only a little bit." This was true. Éponine did like to learn about the world, but it seemed silly to her she should have to learn about far-off lands she'd surely never visit, and the teachers hadn't visited either. How much, she wondered, did they truly know about the plains of Africa or Canada or India?

Monsieur Depaul regarded her approvingly. "Reading and geography! Lovely. You seem to me to be a bright girl. Nine, you say? So young, too." His eyes wandered to the kitchen, then back to the child before him. "And you strike me, little one, as a good girl. You do as your mother and father say."

Éponine sat back. "Why, _monsieur_, of course I am. Of course I do!"

His lips quirked behind his whiskers. "Obedient children, are, naturally, desirable. A parent wishes for obedient children. But in all children there is some degree of stubbornness, and that, too, is important, _petite_. You have some fire in you yet. Fuel that flame." He leaned back in his chair and picked up his wine, holding it casually in one hand and then downing the red liquid, emptying the bottle of its contents. He'd finished his rice, too, and now continued with his soup. He slurped it.

At this, Éponine allowed herself a little giggle, and she took the spoon in her hands and took a mouthful of her own soup. It flowed down her throat and burned her on its path.


	10. How to Succeed in Business

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**Always Get Our Share**

Author's Note: I'm sorry to announce that this chapter marks the final installation of this story. I am sad it has to be over, however, it is far from the last _Les Mis_ story I will be writing; in fact I already have my next story planned. I hope you have all been enjoying it. I know I could have made _Always Get Our Share_ a little longer, but I didn't want to drag out the decline of the Thénardier family so much so that it became a soap drama. On the other hand, this final chapter is nice and long, so hopefully that makes up for all this. I really hope you lot enjoyed this little ficlet, and that you will enjoy my next _Les Mis _story also.

Warning: Some implications to sexual activity in the early paragraphs, as well as mentions of domestic abuse and alcoholism. Reader discretion is advised.

Word Count: 5,774

oOo

* * *

Epilogue: How to Succeed in Business

* * *

**January 1826**

1825 was the year that everything turned rotten.

It started rather early in the year, in mid-January. That was when the late-night rows began, floating up the stairs and finding Éponine and Azelma and the Baby in their bedroom at night. Fractured, broken, angry noises. The occasional smashing of glasses. Then, later that night, in Maman and Papa's bedroom, loud bangs and crashes might be heard. The occasional gasp or moan. But mostly, there was just angry screaming. Sometimes it got so loud Azelma would cry. "Make them stop, 'Ponine," she'd sniffle.

In February, Éponine and Azelma suddenly had a lot more housework to do. Not just making their own beds, but cleaning and sometimes cooking. If they didn't work quickly enough then Maman would scold them and hit them upside the head. Once, Éponine was helping Maman wash the dishes and she dropped a plate. It hit the floor and shattered to pieces. Distressed, the girl apologised, but Maman slapped her right across the face with her meaty, wet hands, and hard, too. The water on her hands was cold and soapy. It dripped down Éponine's face and down her neck.

In March, Éponine and Azelma were encouraged to discreetly go through the book-bags of their classmates and the briefcases of their teachers. That made them both terribly nervous, but they did so, and slipped coins and watches into their own bags, carried the goods home and delivered them to Papa, who pocketed the money and locked all the treasures up in a chest. "For safekeeping," he said.

In April, Éponine began to notice for the first time that the bottles had begun to accumulate, and the liquor never went to the customers. They hardly ever had customers these days anyway. There were bottles of all kinds: wine, beer, and whiskey. Papa collected them and drank almost constantly. Sometimes he sent Éponine and Azelma out to the shop to buy some for him. His breath always stank and sometimes he got sick all over the table. Then he made Maman, or Éponine, or Azelma clean it up for him while he cleaned his teeth and went back to drinking.

Things continued on much in the same way throughout May and June. Éponine and Azelma hardly ever had much time to play, and they certainly didn't on the weekends, when they used to enjoy every free moment, though the sky was clear and blue and tempting and the weather was wonderful. Most of Éponine's dresses didn't at all fit her anymore and she never got any new ones. Azelma got lucky; for a good deal of Éponine's old dresses went to her, but all in all, the clothing was a little small on her, too. In those months, Éponine used her spare time wisely: unlike Azelma, who ran upstairs to play with her dolls, she would venture outside and go all the way to the border of the woods, climb the trees. She might spend hours sitting on the highest branches she could reach without doing anything, just daydreaming. Daydreaming was good because then she didn't have to live at home, in her head, anyway.

In July, Maman and Papa told Éponine and Azelma they were much too old for their dolls and they were to be sold. Azelma cried that day; it was one of the few times she threw a fit, but when Maman boxed her ears she obeyed and gathered all her rag dolls, sullen. Éponine didn't want to sell her dolls, either, but she didn't want to have her ears boxed so she did as she was told. They sold the dolls for a low price to the toy shop, but because there were so many, they returned home with five Francs jingling in their pockets. Papa took all the money, and by the end of next day, there were more bottles in the inn than there had ever been before, including a few bottles of vodka. "It's expensive — merciful heavens, it's expensive — but so very much worth it," he said. "Vodka is the drink of the gods, I tell you."

In August, it got worse still. Papa drank himself into a stupor most nights, and there were more rows. Sometimes, if Éponine and Azelma didn't always do as they were told or asked what he called a "silly question", they'd get hit, and harder than any slap or blow Maman had ever delivered. Sometimes he hit them for no good reason at all, if he was drunk enough. He hit Maman once that summer, when he was especially drunk. But usually he and Maman got on so well that they never argued, and so there was no reason for him to strike her. Besides, Maman was a loud, brash woman who had such an air of authority about her that most people, Papa included, knew better than to cross her.

In September, they legally named the Baby. Éponine heard them talking, but she didn't remember what the name was, and either way it didn't matter, because it was never uttered again. It was only a name and a signature on a bit of paper, for when he began school the next year. She supposed she'd find out what his official name was then, but to her, he was just the Baby, or her _petit frère_. "What's in a name," she said to Azelma, who didn't remember either. They'd read that scene from Shakespeare's play in her class, and Éponine thought she might be the only one who'd understood it even slightly.

In October, they started eating less. During the first week, Maman simply stopped sending them a lunch to school, but by the end of the month they had reached a low point where they didn't always have supper at night. Éponine was unused to hunger; all her life she and her sister and even the unloved Baby had gotten proper feeding each day: their bread and their cheese and their meat, and fruits and vegetables, too. "Why can't we have any soup?" Éponine said mournfully that night as she was sent off to bed with only a glass of water. Maman said they didn't have money, and what little they had must go to the customers. Not that they got customers very often these days; often the food would go to waste out back.

In November, Papa became continually more easily provoked and angered, and with his anger came his fists. The worst of it was after he'd hit them, when she or Azelma would remain huddled against a wall and whimpering, and he'd stand up with his fists shaking and glare at them. _Would you look what you made me do_, he always said. _Would you just look at what you made me do_. It was always Éponine's fault, or Azelma's. Never his. Those words sunk down in Éponine's stomach and made her feel ill.

And December was much the same, and Éponine Thénardier was a good girl: she bowed her head and took it. And she didn't even get the worst of it — that would be Azelma, who was so small and meek and easily confused. She cried more, and had taken to becoming unusually silent, had locked herself up in a little shell; barely speaking even to Éponine anymore. At school, too, she was quiet and never spoke out. During playtimes, Éponine had found her huddled behind the little schoolhouse drawing pictures in the snow with a stick or plucking at the lint on her cloak and skirt.

But it confused both children whenever, on the precious night that customers did come, Papa was the charming landlord all over again, and he didn't pay his daughters the time of day.

oOo

One January day in 1826, a year after things had begun turning bad, Éponine and Azelma were walking back home from school together, as they always did. Azelma walked ahead a little, her arms outstretched, and she hummed to herself softly. "I'm a bird," she explained to her sister when she received a quizzical look, before returning to her strange, private game. Every once in a while she would stop in her tracks and turn her head from side to side, flap her arms violently, and continue on.

Éponine trekked just behind her miserably, hugging her books to her chest. Her body was hunched against the wind. This winter was less bitter than the one before it, and the one prior to that, but she still didn't have a new cloak. Not only was this one a little small, it was starting to wear thin as well. She wondered, suddenly, if this was how the Lark sometimes felt, only worse of course because the Lark hadn't even had shoes. How strange that she thought of the old servant girl now; when she'd not spared her a single thought at all for well over a year. Now she wondered where Cosette had gotten to now, and if she was happy with the mysterious Man in the Yellow Coat, and if she had turned pretty and had fine toys. She was further confused to discover she didn't even know what to make of the Lark anymore. There was resentment, oh yes, because it was _her_ fault everything had gotten so horrible. After all, things only started to change after she'd gone away. But on the other hand, for the first time in her life, Éponine felt just the tiniest bit sorry for her. It was a powerful dilemma for a girl of ten years to have, and she continued pondering on it the entire walk home.

But when she reached the inn's unhappy doors, she shrank inside just the slightest bit. She balanced carefully on the icy stoop, and stepped inside, quickly shutting the door behind her so as not to let the cold air in, Azelma just in front of her. Inside, it was unusually chilly, just as it was outside: she wasn't greeted with the warm and comforting crackle of the fireplace, and the floor under her feet was covered in shattered shards of glass. The entire place smelt vaguely of liquor (as it always did nowadays) and, for some reason, of ink.

Removing her cloak and helping Azelma with hers (as her sister had since stopped humming and abandoned her game; had grown quiet and withdrawn yet again), Éponine called out hesitantly, "Maman?" She hung their cloaks and hats up on the coat rack by the door, and stuffed her mittens into the sleeves. From the next room, Éponine could hear creaking floorboards and the muffled sounds of conversation, indicating she was not alone, but otherwise, there was nothing. Azelma reached up and grabbed her hat from the coat rack, hugged it to her chest tightly as if it were a doll or stuffed teddy. Out of sisterly instinct, Éponine stepped in front of her, though she didn't really know why. "Maman?" she called out again. "We are home."

Some more creaks, then Maman came out of the parlour. Her hair, which was usually done up in elaborate styles and decorated with stylish, stolen wooden combs, was tied into a messy bun at the back of her head. She had her apron on, though it didn't smell at all like cooking, and it was oddly soiled. "There you both are," she hissed, hurrying over to them and taking them both by the hand. She began to drag her two notably confused daughters through the eating room and towards the stairs. "What in the name of heaven took you so long? Your father and I have been waiting a long time."

"We didn't take any longer than usual," Éponine argued indignantly. "We only left school and started walking home straight away, as we always do." But Maman's angry glare was enough to make the girl shy away, and she fell silent. Next to her, Azelma stood stiffly, wringing her hands.

Maman ushered them up the stairs, ranting all the way. "You must listen to me closely, both of you, now. And there's no need for that petulant tone, listen to me! As you are both aware, we have been running short on money and last month, your Papa didn't pay the rent; meaning the landlord came over, and if we don't pay by the end of the week we shall be evicted. We still haven't the money to pay, so your father is writing a begging letter to a rich gent lives near the square. If we are lucky, he will come by, and give us some money and goods out of charity. I want you to fix this place up … hurry, be quick, we don't have all day … take off your gowns and fetch your old Sunday dresses, those'll do. And undo those silly little ringlets of yours, Éponine. Then come down to the parlour. And send your blasted brother down, too! I would have gotten him myself, but the brat's taken to barricading the door with a chair while you're away and he refuses to come out — defiant creature!" All this she said while leading them up the stairs, now she hovered over them before their bedroom door.

It was Azelma who was bold enough to ask a question. It was unexpected, but she sounded so meek and nervous she might as well not have said anything at all. "Landlord? But I thought we _owned_ this place?"

Maman threw her arms in the air in frustration. "Ye gods, child, don't be idiotic! Of course we don't _own_ this inn; do you think we're rich? We pay rent to run this establishment once a month. We're poor folk, in case that didn't sink in and reach your little brain. Now go inside your room and do as I told you." She turned and went down the stairs, muttering to herself.

Éponine knew that her brother had started barricading the door; he'd been doing so for over a month now and she couldn't blame him. He only opened the door to his sisters, and only when they knocked and called through. That was what Éponine did now, rapping on the door lightly with her knuckles and calling softly, "Baby? It's us, we're home now, it's alright." From behind the door she heard the pattering of feet, a scrape as he tugged the chair out from under the doorknob where he'd stuffed it, and opened to them. Éponine picked him up and passed through, Azelma at her tail. "You know," she said to her brother softly, "Maman says she wants you downstairs. Go along, and don't worry, she shan't strike you."

He looked at her, big blinking blue eyes meeting brown. Then he nodded slowly. "Alright." He let his sister set him down, and, after a nervous pause, padded out of the room. He was still in his sleep-clothes. Éponine watched him go, then shut the door. Azelma had sat on the edge of her cot and had taken to clinging to her hat ever tighter, her fingers stroking the fabric lovingly. She rocked back and forth a little where she sat, and Éponine decided to dig through their wardrobe.

She hadn't even the faintest idea why Maman might want them to fetch their old Sunday dresses, but she did as she was told and found the wretched, stiff grey dresses stuffed at the very back of the wardrobe, wrinkled. Hers was dated about two years old, and Azelma's just a little older. They would surely be too small, but she didn't ask questions as she undid her ringlets, letting her dark hair fall loose about her shoulders, handed her sister one dress, and the girls headed back downstairs, going to the parlour as had been requested.

In the past few months, the parlour had been the nicest room in the inn, always clean. The walls had been lined in plush faux velvet settees and armchairs and sofas. There was always a friendly fire crackling in the hearth and bowls of fruit on the small tables and beneath the window there had been a writing desk equipped with stacks of fresh paper, a pen, and a fancy inkwell always full of ink. Now, the room was dirty, with more broken glass spread on the floor and several crumpled pieces of paper lying about. Maman was sitting in one of the armchairs with the Baby on her knee, and she seemed to be working at his blond hair, but making it messy for some reason. Papa was hunched over the writing desk with a pen in one hand and his omnipresent bottle in the other. This one contained whiskey, and was about half-full. He did not even look up as they entered the room. He was wearing a pair of round, gold-rimmed spectacles on the tip of his nose, and Éponine wondered why, for as far as she was aware, Papa's eyesight was perfect.

"We've fetched the dresses," Éponine said softly, holding out the stiff grey gown as proof. She wondered if she would be scolded for not putting them on, but she had since learned it was best to take Maman's instructions literally, word for word. She heaved a little sigh of relief when her mother lifted the Baby from her knee, setting him on the ground, and came up to them, looking pleased, and only now did Papa look up.

"Oh, excellent," he said, then, louder. "_Excellent_." Éponine wondered what was so excellent about a pair of old Sunday dresses, but Papa went on, standing now. He clasped his hands together and took to pacing the room. "Go fetch some knives from the kitchen and cut them up a bit; and don't try to be neat about it. And not too much, we don't this to look deliberate, now, do we? Then, smear some ashes from the fireplace onto them, we want the dresses dirty. And you, boy," he now addressed the Baby, who looked frightened at being spoken to directly by his father, "run along back upstairs and bring me some old rags and patches of cloth. Any kind of cloth, bed linen, cotton, it doesn't matter. Bring them to me, and then you can stay out of the way, you're much too troublesome to bother with." The Baby disappeared.

Maman had already gone to the kitchen in search of knives, now she emerged and had taken to cutting up the dresses. "I'll do this," she said roughly when Éponine reached for them. "Go dirty your faces a little with the ash, and clear up all these papers on the floor. I'll give you these to wear when they're ready." When the girls paused, her eyes flashed dangerously. "Go!" she barked, and they went, bending and picking up the crumpled pieces of paper from the floor. Éponine tried to flatten one out, intending to read it, but the ink was smeared and she could only make out a few words here and there. She noticed Maman was glaring at her still, so she finished collecting the balls of paper and headed outside to dispose of them. Azelma followed her, as she usually did.

Once they were outside, Azelma spoke up. "'Ponine? Whatever is going on?" Her breath and fear caught in the frigid air, forming a little foggy cloud.

There were some old crates behind the inn in which Papa kept the used bottles he didn't break for the bottle-collectors to gather when they came by on the weekend. Éponine lifted the lid of one, and stuffed her share of wadded-up paper inside, and her sister followed suit. "I don't _know_," she snapped. "I can't know everything."

"Oh."

They hurried back inside to escape the cold, not that it made much difference. When they got there, the Baby had come back downstairs, holding a small wicker basket filled with various patches and scraps of fabric. Éponine recognised one of her doll's bonnets in the mix; it must have been in her armoire and not in her toy-chest with her other doll's things. He set the basket down on the writing desk next to Papa, wheeled on the spot, and took off.

Their father barely glanced over his shoulder as his son bolted the room. He glanced in the basket and nodded his approval, then turned to his daughters, who were standing, confused and nervous, in the doorway. "Have you disposed of the papers? Good. Now I want you to put these into the hearth, and start a good fire. After that you may put on your Sunday finest." He inclined his head towards the dresses, which Maman had finished with; they were spread out side-by-side on the largest sofa. They looked to be in a sorry state, all cut up and dirty.

Azelma, Éponine was surprised, was feeling bold today, for she spoke up. "Won't wood make a better fire?" she asked quietly. A faint tremor in her voice. There was a pile of firewood in the stable; Papa had cut it himself not a fortnight ago.

In response, Papa merely snorted. "I knew you were slow but I didn't know you were stupid. Rag fires will make ashes and soot quicker, and that's what we want."

Éponine didn't dare to ask any more questions, and Azelma swallowed hard and didn't utter another word, instantly getting to work. She grabbed the basket in her small hands and crouched by the fireplace, beginning to deposit the cloth strips into the hearth. Éponine hesitated, glancing at Papa for a moment, as he'd returned to writing his letter, before joining her sister. They then slipped upstairs to put on their "Sunday finest." Both dresses were considerably too small on them, and Éponine's was so tight at the waist she wondered if this was what it was like to wear a corset. She was too young for a corset yet, but she'd overheard some of the older girls at school complain about their corsets. As for Maman, she was large enough that surely no corset would fit her, and she wasn't the sort of woman to care besides. Now dressed, the sisters walked downstairs together to meet Papa yet again in the parlour. Azelma grabbed for her older sister's hand, and Éponine took it, holding it tightly. They waited as patiently as they could, sitting on the sofa, as Papa wrote. There would be no gain in interrupting him. He would notice them when he wanted to.

After about ten minutes had gone by according to the mantle clock, Papa had red over his letter and stuffed it into an envelope, scratching an address on the front of the envelope before finally standing. He held it out. "Here," he said. "Take this, deliver it to the address I've written on the front. A man by the name of Fitzroy should answer the door. You must tell him you are the daughters of Monsieur Thénardier, and that we are poor and in need of money. Come up with a sob story if you want on your way, just make sure it's enough to get that man to come here and give us something. And don't take your cloaks — they're much too fancy for beggars. Take some old shawls instead. Leave your hats and mittens, too: your mother can hide them away somewhere."

oOo

The house was one of the nice ones just off the main square, the kind that Éponine and Azelma sometimes passed and admired. This specific one, number 05, was just as fine as the others on the street. There was a large front garden with its own well, surrounded by a picket fence, and ivy crawling up the sides of the wall. Éponine hesitantly opened the gate and crossed the garden, sticking to the neat stone path.

She was shivering hard at this point, and Azelma, just behind her as was wont, and shivering also. Along the walk her sister had been completely silent, and when Éponine had tried to talk to her, she'd turned away and flinched, as if expecting to be scolded or struck. It was disturbing to say the least, and Éponine didn't blame her. But Éponine was strong, and she'd stopped fearing her father; turned that fear into hatred. Well-deserved hatred, too, she figured, because she hadn't thought her family remotely unusual until recently. But if there was one thing she knew, it was that Papas didn't strike their little girls.

Now she stood on the stoop, teeth beginning to chatter. Éponine raised her fist and knocked softly on the door, thrice. She heard a dog bark, and there was some shuffling. After about a minute had elapsed, a man of about forty in a good suit answered the door, with short dark hair and blue eyes. He frowned at the two beggar children in front of him, but with puzzlement and not disdain. "Yes? Might I help you?"

"_Monsieur_," Éponine said, with as much formality as she knew, "we are the daughters of Thénardier, our Papa runs the inn at the edge of the village, but have recently been stricken by poverty. Here is a letter further explaining our situation." From the folds of her flimsy shawl she produced the letter in its envelope. The man, Monsieur Fitzroy, she assumed, took it and pulled the letter from its envelope. He squinted slightly as he read Papa's scrawl, and when he had finished, his blue eyes were awash in sympathy.

"Oh, your poor children," he breathed. "Yes, certainly I'll come. Let me grab my coat and money-purse, and perhaps you'd each like a little piece of bread, too?" Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared inside, emerging some moments later putting on a thick overcoat. He had his money-purse with him, as promised, and two fat slices of white bread, of which he held on each to either sister. The girls, who'd not had anything to eat since yesterday's meagre supper of pea soup, grabbed the bread. Éponine wondered what the note had said. But then she remembered her manners and gave the man a polite thank-you, and for good measure, a little curtsey. She elbowed her sister when she didn't do the same, but Azelma only stared at the man with her big brown eyes and began to eat.

The girls led the man to their inn, where Papa had a hushed conversation with the gentleman in the downstairs parlour. Éponine and Azelma were gruffly instructed by Maman to sit at one of the tables in the lonely eating room and "look pitiful." It wasn't a difficult task at all for Azelma, who already looked pitiful enough with her blank stares and odd, private games. And she was definitely the thinner of the two sisters — paler, too. She sat on a stiff chair playing a game with two wooden spoons, humming to herself. Éponine knew the tune: _Au Claire de Lune_.

For the elder Thénardier sister, "looking pitiful" was more difficult, because it was an instruction given. She settled for sitting next to her sister and looking downwards sadly. She did hope that would do. Just in the next room, in the parlour, Papa continued his hushed conversation with Monsieur Fitzroy, of which Maman also took part. The Baby, it would seem, was kept away upstairs, ignored as usual.

Éponine and Azelma sat, looking pitiful, for a long time, over an hour. But finally, the rich man left the parlour silently, flashing another sympathetic smile at the two pitiful Thénardier girls as he went. He left the inn, and that was that.

Papa then emerged, and he was grinning. "Money," he said. "We've got money. Now, it's rather late: you girls should both run off to bed." It was around nine o'clock, and wordlessly, Éponine and Azelma did as they were told. They were not offered any supper, but at least Monsieur Fitzroy's bread filled them up nicely. They headed upstairs, scrubbed their faces clean and stripped off their Sunday dresses, changing into fresh nightgowns. The nightgowns were ill-fitting, as were most of their clothes nowadays, but a relief in comparison to the stiff and dirty Sunday clothes. The Baby was already asleep, and now they went to sleep too.

Maman and Papa engaged in another one of their late-night rows again. And they did every night, for the next week and a half. Some of the rows ended in more crashes and stomping, but a couple were resolved with the mysterious bangs and gasps and moans in the bedroom.

During those days, Azelma did not utter a single word, even at school, for her teacher approached Éponine one day and asked her, "Do you know what's gotten into that sister of yours? She's always been a strange one, but she's taken to complete silence, though I've seen her singing and humming to herself in the schoolyard at playtime. It's worrisome behaviour." Éponine had shrugged and mumbled some lie about Azelma being thoroughly upset that their cat had died, but would surely recover from this phase soon, and the teacher withdrew.

One day, when the girls returned home from school, they were bewildered to find a wagon parked outside of the inn, and Maman and Papa were stuffing some of their things in back of it. The Baby was sitting on the stoop, playing with a snowball and hastily bundled up against the January chill. Maman and Papa hadn't made them sell the wooden animals. When he saw his sisters coming up the path, he leapt to his feet and ran to them. "'Ponine! 'Zelma! Maman and Papa say that we are going to Paris! They took down the inn sign!"

"Paris?" Éponine was bewildered. "Why?" He only shrugged, wandered over to the wagon, and began to run around it in circles in a fantasy game of his own, taking hold of a fallen branch and pretending it was a rifle.

Maman was coming out of the inn again carrying a valise full of their clothes, and Éponine ran to her. "Are we truly going to Paris?" she inquired, brow furrowed. "It's what the Baby said."

Her mother dropped the valise in back of the wagon, and now she began to walk back to the inn. "Yes, it's true," she said, without looking at her daughter. "We are moving to Paris. Your father says we can find some proper work there; here we shall never get by. He wrote a letter to your school explaining that we will suddenly be living the village, and sent it by a passing messenger boy. Now hurry up your arse, girl, we don't have all day and if there's anything of yours you wish to take with you, hurry up and fetch it or it'll be left behind."

Éponine ran upstairs to her bedroom. The cots belonging to her and her siblings were still there, with the bedclothes all tucked in, just as she'd left them that morning. She opened her armoire. Some of her better-fitting dresses had been taken already, but most of them had been left there. Éponine left them too, she didn't want to keep any. The only items she gathered were her wooden animals, the only playthings she hadn't been forced to sell. She left the little glass cat and the ivory elephant, however, much as it upset her to do so; she'd like those best. But they'd surely only get broken on the journey. She grabbed, too, the empty tin box in which she'd once kept her pocket money, and stuffed the animals in there.

Downstairs, Azelma was sitting on the stoop with the Baby, holding him to her chest tightly, as if he were her own child and not her younger brother. Éponine deposited the tin box in the wagon, and now Azelma rose and came up to her, the Baby trailing behind her. "Why are we going, 'Ponine?" she asked, uttering her first words in a while. "I don't want to go to Paris."

Despite her initial relief that Azelma was finally speaking, Éponine couldn't help but to heave an impatient sigh. "I don't know, 'Zelma. I don't know everything. Why is it you assume I do?"

"Because you're an entire year older than I."

Maman came up behind them then, giving her youngest daughter a swat upside the head. "Come, if you're all ready to go, then climb in back of the wagon and we shall go." She pointed at Papa, who was already sitting on the little bench up front, and driving it apparently. There was a spot next to him where Maman would surely be sitting, and the children would presumably be riding in back with all their things. Éponine hoisted the Baby up, then climbed up herself before leaning over and helping Azelma. The girls sat on the pile of dresses, where they were cramped but comfortable. The Baby, meanwhile, being only five, found a place for himself wedged between two chairs.

"Where do you imagine we shall live in Paris?" Azelma was full of questions again, and a little back to her usual self. She shifted on the dresses to gain comfort. "Shall we have a beautiful palace? Oh, imagine if we do and we attend all sorts of balls and parties and weddings! People are rich in Paris, after all, aren't they?"

"Not everyone is. There are people who live on the streets, in the slums, and beg for money. _They're_ not rich, and neither are we, remember?"

"But we shan't have to live like that, will we? On the streets?"

"I doubt it. We aren't _that_ poor. I imagine we'll be living in an apartment somewhere. Oh, but we shall surely go to a nice Parisian school, in a grand building with far more children than here in Montfermeil."

"Oh, _shall_ we? Shall we be Parisian schoolgirls, like in books? I'd like that." Azelma seemed elated at the very thought.

They suddenly began to move; Maman had climbed up onto the seat next to Papa. The frozen road was bumpy, but not so much so that the girls were uncomfortable in the back of the wagon. They began to dream of their life in Paris, where they wouldn't be rich but they'd not be in Montfermeil either. There were handsome gentlemen in Paris, too! Perhaps they'd meet some when they got older and marry them and live wonderful lives and have many children.

All this they dreamed of, forgetting the chill as the inn got smaller and smaller. Under a sky that was the grey of newspaper, they drove off to _Paris_, leaving behind Montfermeil and its shadows.

~ End ~


End file.
